


Love, love will tear us apart again

by to_be_empty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x13, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s09e13 Coda, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I have to fix it, Post-Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Season/Series 09, Supernatural is breaking my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/to_be_empty/pseuds/to_be_empty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows how to sucker punch, maybe too well. </p><p>“But you didn’t want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can’t stand the thought of being alone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Words like violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows how to sucker punch, maybe too well. 
> 
> “But you didn’t want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can’t stand the thought of being alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural has been hurting me for how many episodes in a row, now, four? I just couldn't take it anymore, I have to fix this. I can't wait another 10 days for another 3-minute heart-breaking scene. So I started writing this story that has gradually developed during the course of the last 10 days.
> 
> Silver lining: the emotional hurt in the last episode actually poked me in the right direction so that I wrote something for the first time in nearly 7 months.
> 
> The story title is from Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division and the chapter title from Enjoy The Silence by Depeche Mode, obviously.

**Love, love will tear us apart again**

**Chapter 1 – Words like violence**

It’s not that the bed is uncomfortable. More like Sam is uncomfortable – with himself, inside his head.

He meant to go to sleep, like he told Dean as he left the kitchen, avoiding his eyes. But surprise: Sleep won’t come for him. Not tonight, probably not ever until he’s truly sorted things out with his brother.

Because Dean _is_ his brother. It doesn’t make a difference whether Sam continues to insist to keep things ‘strictly business’ between them or not. Sam knows this and in the quiet, solitary light of the late hours of the night, he can admit that.

In retrospect, if he has to be completely honest with himself, he knows that he’s only punishing Dean by playing the ‘if you wanna be brothers’ card, even though it wasn’t about the punishment when he first said that. He was just so angry, so betrayed and so full of guilt – shaking with it inside and maybe a little on the outside, too.

He’s hurting, he’s mad and he’s so fucking miserable. Tired. Violated.

So he lashes out just like a wounded animal. He’s positive he’s not alone in this regard ‘cause Sam knows Dean lashes out, too, when he’s pushed enough.

His brother has always been more physical than Sam, though. Dean’s not exactly a man of a few words, per se, but he’s definitely more tangible than Sam. He would take a swing, two or probably more if he was angry and hurting enough. Actually, Sam has realized that this is the exact reason why Dean always seems to revert to his outdated gung-ho it’s-a-monster-so-we-should-waste-it mentality whenever something is seriously wrong with him. It’s almost like emotional trauma, stress, depression or whatever you wanna call it returns his brother to his factory settings.

So Dean prefers to take his frustration out with his fists. But Sam, Sam knows his way with his words.

He knows how to sharpen his knife.

_“You didn’t save me for me. You did it for you.”_

He knows how to sucker punch, maybe too well.

_“But you didn’t want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can’t stand the thought of being alone.”_

He knows how to plunge his knife in, right between the ribs, up to the hilt.

_“I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrifice as long as you're not the one being hurt.”_

And then, there’s nothing left for him to do but twist. After all, it has to hurt, right?

_“No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.”_

Sam lies restless on his bed, staring at the cold concrete ceiling as he goes over all the things he said just a few hours ago. And then all the things he didn’t actually say.

No matter how it all sounds inside his head right now, he’s sure he didn’t set out to hurt Dean. Not this time, at least. He knows he was being petty a few days ago when he told his brother he was ‘just being honest’. It was stupid and childish and thankfully, Dean responded in the same way with his own remark.

This time, though, Sam just wanted to make him understand the gravity of what he did. If he could only reach that far into Dean, into himself and find a way, any way to communicate... But he can’t.

It seems sometimes, words fail Sam, too.

And the result is seeing a flash of that horrible tremor in Dean’s eyes and trying desperately to run away from it. It is a lot like trying to sprint away from a nuclear fall out: impossible, basically.

Sam lets out a deep sigh and flips onto his side. He checks his watch grudgingly.

_03:25_

He wonders if Dean’s still awake or if he’s already passed out from all the whiskey he’s been downing. After all, Dean’s an experienced professional at self-medicating to suppress strong emotions.

It takes Sam another fifteen minutes to gather the courage to get up and go see if Dean’s still vertical. Though he has no idea what to say to him if he is. ‘Cause he won’t apologize, that’s for sure. At least, not until Dean does.

He slowly makes his way to the kitchen and tries to think of something to say to Dean – some kind of introduction or greeting. To break the ice or something. Although Sam fears at this point, a hammer drill might not even be enough to break the ice between them.

He feels instant relief pump through his entire body when he realizes he has geared up for nothing. The kitchen is empty save for a drained bottle of cheap scotch and Dean’s tipped over glass on top of the table, who both seem to be glaring at Sam in accusation.

So Dean has gone to bed, after all. Apparently, Sam has underestimated his brother’s tolerance for alcohol if Dean was able to pick himself up from the kitchen table and get to his room after polishing an entire bottle of whiskey.

For an unpleasant moment, Sam wonders how much alcohol would someone like Dean could possibly drink without being poisoned. Then he shakes his head to get rid of the disturbing thought, rights the glass on the table so it doesn’t roll over to the floor and starts walking back to his room. But as he passes by Dean’s door, another horrible thought pops into his head.

What if Dean’s so drunk he’s lying on his back? He wouldn’t pull a Jimi Hendrix on Sam, would he? Because that would be ironic – what with his secret teenage dreams of becoming a rockstar and everything.

Sam takes a couple steps backwards and stares at Dean’s door, frowning intensely. He just has to make sure Dean isn’t choking on his own vomit. Not that he’s seen his brother drunk to the point of vomiting in over a decade. But just in case.

He grabs the handle and pries the door open slowly, trying his best to be quiet.

Once again, Sam has geared up for nothing, though. Dean’s not in his room. After seeing his empty, untouched bed, Sam makes quick work of searching the bunker for his brother. As he walks through the various dimly-lit corridors, he calls out for him a few times dumbly.

“Dean? ... Dean!”

But Dean’s nowhere to be found.

After a short while, it occurs to Sam to check if the car is still outside.

It’s not.

Dean’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have all the remaining parts planned out. Hopefully I will finish this monster of a coda before the next episode airs.
> 
> This is my first ever post on AO3. So please tell me what you thought of this?


	2. Ease your trouble - explode or implode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Sam said some serious crap to set his brother off and when enough has piled up inside Dean, he has to explode eventually – or implode. It’s one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the next chapter. I haven't had much time to proof-read this one, so sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!
> 
> By the way, the chapter title is from The Cardigans' song Explode.

**Chapter 2 - Ease your trouble - explode or implode  
**

It takes Sam fifteen minutes of pacing around the bunker to gather up the nerve to call Dean. Once he’s finally made up his mind, he grabs his phone from the nightstand and hits speed dial.

He feels the faint prickles of an impending headache creep up on him as he paces back towards the library, waiting for the phone to connect to the tower.

Sam thinks it’s only natural for him to worry about Dean driving after ingesting that much alcohol: A whole bottle of scotch in one evening – four or five hours at tops. That’s dangerous enough even without an impulsive late night drive. Sam once knew a guy at school who had to be hospitalized in the middle of the night because of shit like that. The guy had a BAC of 0.35 or something; the doctors said he almost died. Dean might be the freaking Master of burying his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle of liquor but even _his_ body has limits.

Sam hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose tightly, hoping for Dean to pick up.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

“ – You know what to do.”

Dean’s slightly tinny yet completely sober voice echoes around the inner walls of Sam’s head for a few seconds as he processes this new information.

So he shut off his phone? Dean stormed out of the bunker at ass o’clock in the night (or morning), probably drunk enough to be mostly blind, jumped behind the wheel and took off. And he shut off his phone?!

Sam can’t bring himself to believe that because it’s just not Dean. He, himself, might have done something like that once – hell he has done crap like that once – but not Dean. Dean _has_ never and _would_ never do that. Even at his most pissed, Dean would at least yell something like “I’m goin’ out!” Sam cringes even thinking that particular thought but his brother is just that responsible. Of course, he’s also just that irresponsible to be drunk-driving in rural Kansas at four in the morning.

Another, more plausible explanation would be a simple, dead battery. After all, it’s perfectly normal for a smart phone to be dead at this hour of the night.

“Or he could be lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding to death,” supplies some masochistic part of Sam’s brain, helpfully.

Sam lets out a big whoosh of air and runs a slightly trembling hand through his long hair – he just needs to get it out of his face.

He’s well aware that this isn’t Dean's first rodeo. In fact, if there was a frequent drunk-driver club, Dean would surely be a Gold member by now. But this time is different. This time, Sam personally hurt Dean really bad and he just can’t be sure Dean won’t do something stupid. Because Sam said some serious crap to set his brother off and when enough has piled up inside Dean, he has to explode eventually – or implode. It’s one way or another.

So far, Dean has shown no visible signs of an explosion. Sam would notice because Dean always explodes pretty spectacularly and in the end some, if not _all_ of it, rains down on Sam.

This time, though, Sam is afraid Dean will implode all by himself and Sam won’t know how to pick up the pieces of him. How can he begin to know that? How can he save someone from himself? If he already knew that, he would help himself to begin with and save Dean the trouble in the first place.

So Dean has issues. Sam has issues. Hell, everybody knows they have issues. They probably need a butt-load of therapy just to be able to function in a semi-healthy way. But something is always on the way, something is always too urgent, too life or death to deal with their scarred psyches first. Not that they would willingly deal if they had the time but…

But this has to stop.

Sam just wants to trust his brother, believe in him like he always has. He can’t do that until he makes Dean understand, though. His brother is still having trouble wrapping his head around why exactly Sam is mad. He suspects the reason Dean can’t understand where he’s coming from is because he keeps ending up on the same simple place at the end of every turn: Sam is alive, what could be worse?  

The problem is that Dean’s never been possessed. Not even once, except for that disgusting con-worm thing that one time. Sam has never been possessed by that thing so he doesn’t really know what Dean remembers. But he figures it’s probably not very much if Dean can’t understand the horror of not being in control of his own body.

Sam remembers slitting some little girl’s father’s throat. He remembers the warmth of his blood on his fingers.

Sam remembers the terror on Jo’s face, the shake in her eyes as he put his hands on her body.

Sam remembers the feel of people’s flesh giving under his nails and he remembers holding intestines in his hands. He remembers trying to fight it and he remembers losing, every single time. Lucifer was… he was a tsunami.

He remembers the loud snap of Bobby’s neck.

He remembers the smell of blood and tissue as Cas burst like a balloon.

He remembers the horrible give of Dean’s skin under his fists. Sometimes, suspended in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, he can still feel Dean’s bones shift under his knuckles.

And now, when he closes his eyes at night most of the time, he sees his own hand on Kevin’s head, the poor kid’s eyes burning out of his skull.

Sam doesn’t expect Dean to understand that. Because there’s no way he can. And Sam will do anything and everything in his power to keep Dean from ever being in a situation that would make him fully understand that. That’s why he wouldn’t do what Dean did under the same circumstances. Because he knows possession and he’s damn sure that nothing good ever comes out of it.

So maybe Dean can’t understand possession. Sam is pretty sure he can understand the feeling of betrayal, though. Sam was violated; he was robbed of his agency for months and his big brother, his stone-number-one, kept lying to him through his teeth, tricking him into being – staying – possessed by some psycho angel.

And for what? To keep him alive? Was he alive, did that even count? For months, he wasn’t even Sam… The thought is almost as scary as Lucifer himself. At least, with Lucifer, Sam could fight. It was much like throwing himself repeatedly at a brick wall but he was still aware. What Gadreel did, though, it was more like date-raping someone. Sam was completely unaware. And in this disturbing analogy, his brother was left in the role of aider and abettor.

Sam tries to clear his mind as he finally gives up after the fourth time he hears Dean’s voicemail answer the phone.

“Dean, man… Just, where the hell are you?” he sighs, resigned. “Call me… Please?”

He lets his phone drop onto the nearest table with a loud clutter and sinks into a chair. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he go get one of the cars from the garage and start looking around for Dean? He doesn’t even know where to start looking. Where would Dean go at this hour of the night?

He checks his watch again.

_04:10_

He finally goes out to see if he can see any tire tracks from the car to gauge in which direction Dean went. But since Sam has never had any luck in his entire 31 years, the ground is hard and covered with fallen leaves. There’s no way to tell which way Dean took off. Even the two-lane asphalt looks perfectly symmetric to Sam so that he can’t really make his own personal choice.

Shaking his head and wincing at the blinking headache, Sam makes his way into the bunker once more and grabs the books he sorted out the other day. If he can’t find Dean yet, he can try to calm himself by finding out everything about that Mark of Cain Dean’s carrying around these days.

The fact that Dean doesn’t know anything else about that horrendous looking scar other than Crowley and Cain’s words that it’ll help him kill Abaddon, speaks worlds to Sam about his brother’s idea of self-worth. Sam’s pretty sure at this point that Dean hasn’t even stopped to listen to anything else about this mark or curse after hearing the words ‘kill’ and ‘Abaddon’ be used in the same sentence.

And sadly, Sam knows he isn’t doing anything to improve Dean’s notion of self-worth, either. Hell, if anything, he’s sure he made it even worse than before.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Sam opens the bookmarked page and starts reading, his gut clenched with worry.

_“And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.”_

*

_04:45_

There are footsteps outside the door. Slow, shuffling footsteps. And then a heavy thump right against it.

Sam is out of his chair and at the top of the stairs in seconds. He opens the door slowly, in case Dean is leaning on it. He grips his gun tight, keeping it behind the door in case Dean is _not_ leaning on it – in case it isn’t even _Dean_.

Dean _is_ leaning on it, fumbling with the lock.

Sam tucks his gun to his waistband. “Dean?”

His brother takes half a step back, looking startled, all in slow-motion – or on second thought, drunk-motion.

Sam feels his eyes bulge out in shock. Dean’s a mess.

“Shit! What the hell happened to you, Dean?”

His face is littered with bruises. His bottom lip and one of his eye brows is split open and it looks like there’s just too much blood everywhere in general.

Sam reaches out and grabs Dean by the waist in order to steer him inside. As his hand closes around his brother’s body, Dean lets out a pained whimper and doubles over. He’s clutching at his stomach and panting desperately.

“Dean,” Sam tries again, hesitantly moving to grip his brother’s elbow “Man, where does it hurt?”

Sam thinks Dean is shaking his head. He’d probably be saying “I’m fine, lemme go” if his breaths weren’t so labored. Jackass.

Sam strengthens his hold on his brother and spares a second to shoot a look over his shoulder. The car seems fine. If Dean didn’t crash, just what the hell happened to him? “Hey, hey Dean! Can you walk?”  

Dean scoffs and manages to shoot him a look full of venom from beneath his drooping eyelids before shuffling forward in a big show of manliness.

Sam follows him, one arm gripping him tight at the elbow, the other wrapped around his shoulders, ready to take his weight if his knees decide to buckle over. Dean struggles weakly to get his elbow out of Sam’s hand as they are about to reach the stairs and he finally says it, slurring his words a bit. “’m fine. ‘me go.”

Sam chuckles humorlessly. “Not gonna happen.”

Dean winces slightly, squeezing his eyes for a moment, as if the sound of Sam’s chuckle is too loud for him. They stop shuffling towards the stairs for a minute so that Dean can gather himself.

Sam’s eyes are roaming over his brother’s body, cataloguing each and every injury as they go, when he notices the big bump at the back of Dean’s head.

“Dean, did you hit your head?” he asks softly, trying not to be loud for Dean’s sake.

Dean blinks open one eye. “No.”

Sam frowns at him, concerned. Could it be memory loss? “Then how did this happen?” he continues smoothly, touching the bump on his brother’s head.

“Mmm…” Dean hums, “Club uhh think”

Sam feels his mouth gape open. “What?” he exclaims and Dean winces again, "Somebody hit you with a club?!”

Dean looks like he’s trying to shift his weight from one leg to another. But in the end, he apparently ends up in more pain if his scrunched up face is any indication.

“Sh-should see th-other guy. Guys.”  

"Guys?" Sam parrots, amazed.

So Dean has exploded after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I put some serious work into this chapter, I have been writing non-stop for four and a half hours and I am achy all over.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think about this =)


	3. Feeling it all begin to slide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean scoffs humorlessly and takes a big swig from his glass. The scotch burns right through him; it burns good, but not nearly enough to mask the stubborn throbbing inside him. His little brother just up and told Dean that he wouldn’t save him if the situation was reversed. That he would just let him die. Just like that.
> 
> It’s no big news, really. Dean’s always known that. That they were different, him and Sam. That he simply doesn’t mean the same thing to his brother as Sam does to him. It’s just that Sam has never gone and outright stated it so clearly, before.
> 
> “No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic just keeps unfolding on me over time. This was supposed to be a coda, dammit, not a full-on chaptered fic! 
> 
> Here, have some Dean POV.
> 
> By the way, the chapter title is from the amazing song I've been singing for two days now: Feeder - Feeling A Moment.

**Chapter 3 -** **Feeling it all begin to slide**

_“Your problem, mate, is that nobody hates you more than you do. Believe me, I've tried.”_

Dean stares at the mostly empty bottle of whiskey on top of the table as he remembers the demon’s words. It’s unsettling to remember the exact sentence but he somehow does, even after draining more than a bottle of whiskey – he’s already polished the old bottle from a couple of days ago and the new one’s almost empty.

Still, he can’t seem to get drunk enough.

“ – _nobody hates you more than you do.”_

He was too hyped up and pissed at that moment to properly process the meaning of the words but he knows now that Crowley was right. A lot of people hate Dean; they hate his guts. They would have his friggin' head on a stick if they ever had the chance, those sons of bitches.

But he doubts they can hate him as much as he hates himself. Not right now. Not ever.

Dean scoffs humorlessly and takes a big swig from his glass. The scotch burns right through him; it burns good, but not nearly enough to mask the stubborn throbbing inside him. His little brother just up and told Dean that he wouldn’t save him if the situation was reversed. That he would just let him die. Just like that.

It’s no big news, really. Dean’s always known that. That they were different, him and Sam. That he simply doesn’t mean the same thing to his brother as Sam does to him. It’s just that Sam has never gone and outright stated it so clearly, before.

_“No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.”_

He knew that Sam could go on without him whereas Dean simply cannot live without Sammy – hell, Sam went and built a life for himself only last year while Dean was rotting in Purgatory. And he has always stated the desire to do so, too. Sam has always wanted more – more than crappy motel rooms, fake badges and fighting for your life on a daily basis.

That’s never been Dean’s dream.

Or maybe it has; but it’s always just been a crazy dream, nothing more. Unattainable; a friggin' utopia.

Dean’s always known he can never have a life outside of the hunt. He tried for a year, for the sake of a promise to his brother. A beautiful woman, an amazing kid, a backyard, the whole nine. He screwed it up in the end, too. He blew it – just like everything else he touches.

Dean runs an exhausted hand over his face before downing the remaining contents of his glass. Lisa almost died because of him. He shakes his head to clear it from the torrent of images suddenly popping up in front of his eyes at the thought of Lisa: She looks so pale and small on the hospital bed. The doctors told Dean she wouldn’t make it through the night. He can’t do anything to save her.

Just like he couldn’t do anything to save Kevin as his eyes burned out of his skull right in front of him.

Just like he couldn’t do anything to save his brother as he watched him lie motionless on that hospital bed.

He did something he knew he shouldn’t have. He gave the okay to a stunt angel he’d met literally three minutes ago to deceive his brother so that he could possess him. Dean still doesn’t know what Gadreel did or said to Sam to get him to say yes. But he’s more or less sure it had something to do with him. After all, it took him begging Sam to stop, baring his whole heart, to keep him from finishing the trials.

And the way Sam keeps talking about it, about how Dean lied to him and tricked him. So Dean is having not-so-pleasant thoughts about Ezek-Gadreel fucking with his brother’s head, using _Dean_ to get Sam to say yes.

Because Sam would never say yes. Like Dean would never say yes.

So Dean knew what he did was wrong, even as he did it. But he had no choice, no alternative way to save Sam. And he _had to_ save Sam. Sam had decided to stop curing Crowley, to back out of trying to close the gates of hell so that he could live. How could Dean let him die knowing that his brother chose to stay alive only a few days ago? How could he let him die, period?

All Dean could remember was what Sam said after he sliced open that hellhound.

_“I want to live, and so should you.”_

It has been a long time since Dean wanted to live. Too long.

_“I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't – I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it.”_

How did Sam regress from having such faith in life for the both of them to suddenly bargaining with Death to guarantee he would be gone for good, this time? Dean just doesn’t understand. He fears his brother might be suicidal. The way Sam keeps telling him he was ready to die, that he was okay with it. It just - it worries Dean.

Sam countered Dean with that same statement when Dean tried to hide behind his self-righteous mask barely an hour ago as he told his little brother he did what he did because it was the right thing. But he knew that was a load of bullshit even as he said it. Because he couldn’t, still _can’t_ say what he knew Sam actually wanted, _needed_ to hear. The point is, Dean can’t apologize for Sam being alive. It’s just not in him to feel sorry that his brother is still breathing.

So Sam is alive. But Dean failed – again.

This time, he fucked up bad enough that Sam will probably never forgive him. Not that Dean deserves forgiveness. Because he doesn’t. He deserves to be punished – he let his brother be possessed by a monster and look what happened... He deserves to be burnt, for the death of Kevin at Sam’s hands alone. Because that kid was as innocent as they come and he’d really become a part of the family.

He was what, nineteen? Dean let him down, too.

Just like he let Sam down.

So he welcomes the pain as the throbbing on his right arm intensifies once more. After all, an angry, red mark on his skin can’t hurt him more than he’s already hurting himself: He made himself watch, he forced himself to watch the demon sticking needles into his brother’s brain until he absolutely couldn’t anymore. And then for a while after that, too. He watched it all for a reason. Because he was the one who did this to Sam. And if his brother could endure so much pain, the least Dean could do was watch him as he did. No matter how much it hurt because Sammy was hurting even worse.

So, in the end, even the King of Hell can’t hate him more than he already hates himself: His own brother has basically disowned him and with good reason, too. So love is out of the question. What’s left for Dean to hold onto but hate, anyway?

He’s been thinking about eating a bullet for some time, now, but it’s just not in him to take the easy way out and slink off like that, leaving Sam to deal with everything on his own. So he’s saving himself for suicide by Abaddon. What is a hunter without a death wish, after all, huh?

He grabs the bottle and doesn’t bother pouring the drink into the glass anymore, just takes a big swig, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he puts the bottle back on the table. The bottle knocks over his glass on the way and WOW, Dean must finally be getting drunk.

But the more he drinks in the silence of the kitchen, the louder it seems to get.

 _“Go. I'm not gonna stop you._ _”_

Dean reaches for the bottle again, his hand trembling slightly. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the pain shooting from his arm through his entire body or because he’s just that drunk.

_"Something's broken here, Dean.”_

He presses the neck of the bottle against his lips tightly and tilts it up all the way. The hard liquor burns as it goes down – but not as much as Sam’s voice resonating endlessly inside Dean’s head.

_“I can't trust you – not the way I thought I could, not the way I should be able to.”_

It stings.

_“You say that like it's some sort of cure-all, like it can change the fact that everything that has ever gone wrong between us has been because we're family.”_

Dean keeps gulping down the whiskey desperately, his head starting to spin.

_“I'm saying, you want to work? Let's work. If you want to be brothers...”_

His chest is clenched tight. He has to let go of the bottle so that he can breathe. Sam’s voice is everywhere.

“ _You swoop in, and even when you mess up, you think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad... But you're not._ _”_

Dean rolls up his sleeve to look at the burning mark. It’s biting into his skin, gnawing down on what’s left of Dean ruthlessly from the inside.

_“You didn't want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can't stand the thought of being alone.”_

He cradles his marked arm against his constricted chest and rocks forward, his left hand wrapping around the bottle once again.

_“I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrifice as long as you're not the one being hurt.”_

Dean squeezes the bottle in anger because this time he knows Sam is wrong. He’s wrong, dammit!

_“No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.”_

Dean drains the last of the bottle in one seemingly endless gulp and jumps to his feet, swaying ever so slightly. It’s just too loud in here.

He has to get out.

He nearly knocks over his chair as he scrambles towards the door of the kitchen.

He needs to get away.

Sam is everywhere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally found the time and peace of mind to get this chapter out. I should tell you that I am slightly tipsy on some good wine right now, so I can't really be sure if there are any typos or other mistakes in the chapter. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you like this. Tell me what you think, please?


	4. Carry on through cartilage and fluid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needs more to drink. He needs to not think. Or he’s gonna put a bullet in his brain and end his suffering once and for all. That would be for everyone’s good, really, considering anyone who ever gets close enough to touch him burns, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, looks like I'm not gonna be able to finish this before the new episode. Damn. This still isn't the last chapter.
> 
> The title is from Desert Song by My Chemical Romance - one of my favorite bands.

**Chapter 4 – Carry on through cartilage and fluid**

Dean doesn’t really know how he ended up in this new place in town – well, new to him at least. He was pretty drunk, driving around aimlessly, risking being busted by a couple cops on highway patrol when he saw the neon sign.

The place looked like it would be within his pay grade and Dean seriously needed to get completely shit-faced. So he went in, took a seat at the bar and it was perfect. The bar was packed and it was noisy as hell – loud enough so that he could finally have a break from his own mind.

Nursing his drink at the bar, Dean can hear nothing but the consistent, loud beat of the music and the white noise generated by too many people talking – yelling – at the same time. It’s almost soothing. Here these people are, drinking, dancing or playing pool and none of them have any idea what’s out there. Whether it’s angels, demons or just humans and their thirst for blood and war and destruction – and money, of course.

So Dean envies all these smiling people here, sometimes. He can never admit it to anyone or even to himself, but ignorance is bliss. These bastards are happy here, carefree. Many of them are out with friends, having a good time. Only a few loners like him are drinking by themselves at the bar and Dean thinks they all feel out of place; so still in such a vibrant room.

He lets out a long breath and takes a big swig from his fifth glass of whiskey – double, neat – as his eyes roam over the numerous bottles stacked up on the shelves behind the bar. There’s something fascinating about looking at so many different bottles full of shiny, colorful liquids. The way the dim light from above the bar reflects off of the delicate curve of the neck of a Russian Standard or the way the amber colored liquor shimmers seductively under the bright green label of a Johnnie Walker – aged 15 years.

So much booze to drink, yet so little time to do it. And the worst part is, he’s fucked up his body so bad in all these years that all that booze has very little effect on him. Dean smiles bitterly to himself; he’s sobering up already.

He feels like it must be getting near closing time and sadly, he’s nowhere near wasted enough to walk away in peace yet. He’s exhausted beyond measure and he knows he still won’t be able to sleep even if he tries. No, Dean really needs to pass out. He needs to be so drunk that he can barely stumble to the car without falling flat on his face and pass out on the front seat.

As he reaches for his glass again, Dean realizes he’s gripping his right arm with his left hand absently, rubbing over the ugly scar with two layers of clothing in between. Ever since he got the damn thing from Cain, his arm has been throbbing painfully, on and off every day. Tonight is different, though. It’s not so much a come-and-go throb as a constant buzz.

Once he notices what he’s doing, he drops his hand from his arm with a frown and reaches for his glass with his left hand instead. He downs the rest of the liquor in one gulp and signals the bartender for another immediately.

He knows it’s not the “right” way to drink scotch – you’re supposed to take small sips, savor the smell and taste of it on your tongue. Well, screw that, Dean’s not here to enjoy himself. He just wants to get drunk enough to forget. And this whiskey isn’t the type to be savored, anyway. It’s cheap and it burns like a motherfucker as it goes down. But Dean’s almost numb by now so it’s the perfect choice for him.

Quantity rather than quality. That’s the way to drink Dean learnt from Dad.

_“ – You fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don’t need you. Not like you need them.”_

Dean feels a fist wrap around his chest, squeezing, as his father’s voice suddenly echoes inside his head. That’s what Dad, no, what that yellow-eyed son of a bitch once told Dean. It was a long time ago but he still remembers. Oh, he remembers all right. ‘Cause it’s the truth and it’s been haunting him since forever.

It’s practically what his brother said to him only a few hours ago.

It’s Dean’s worst fear come true.

He’s always known that. He’s always felt that ever since Mom – ever since Mom.

Mom. Dean wishes for what feels like the hundred thousandth time for Mom to be –

He closes his eyes to keep the tears in and Sam is plastered in front of his eyelids right away. Sam is telling Dean that no, he wouldn’t save Dean. Because... Well, he doesn’t tell the reason, but Dean can guess after everything he’s heard over the past few weeks.

Sam doesn’t need Dean like he needs Sam.

Sam doesn’t love Dean like he loves Sam.

No matter how hard he tries – and maybe just _because_ he tries so hard – he always ends up screwing things up even worse.

He tries to save Sam but instead he damns him. All the time.

Dean hangs his head and reaches for his glass absently; it’s empty. He doesn’t remember drinking it. He nods at the bartender for another one and tries to ignore the constant buzz from his arm spilling all over his body – it’s almost like the hum of an engine running idle.

He needs more to drink. He needs to not think. Or he’s gonna put a bullet in his brain and end his suffering once and for all. That would be for everyone’s good, really, considering anyone who ever gets close enough to touch him burns, one way or another.

Mom, Dad, Jess. Sam. Ellen and Jo and Bobby and Rufus. Cas, too. And Benny. That poor guy Ronald. Ash, Henricksen and that sweet young secretary – Nancy? Pamela, Frank… and Lisa. At least he was able to get away from her fast enough to keep her alive.

Sam told him then that what he did was wrong. He called it something like ‘shady crap’ or ‘worst thing ever’? Well, fuck Sam and his moral high ground. He wasn’t the one holding a bleeding woman in his arms. A woman who loved him, who tried to put his broken pieces together for a whole year and didn’t give up on him even when he was an insufferable bastard. A woman bleeding to death – her precious blood all over his hands – a little boy watching her Mom die and the only reason for it: Dean.

His love was toxic, it was a curse; he was sure of that now.

Dean runs a tired hand over his face as he sighs, resigned. He wants this to end, he wants it so bad. He doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt. He doesn’t wanna contaminate anyone with this poison any longer. But he still can’t take the coward’s way out. Not yet. Not for a little while longer. Not when the path in front of him will take him to the same place, eventually. He’ll just be hitching a ride with that fiery-eyed, red-headed bitch. Purgatory is Hell-adjacent, after all.

He’s gulping down the remainders of his seventh – eighth? – glass when a woman’s loud, irritated voice rings in his ears.

“Do you not understand the meaning of the word ‘NO’?”

He can’t help but turn on his seat to look at what’s going on. She’s sitting two stools over on his left, staring up at the asshole who’s all over her personal space with fire in her eyes.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that,” the guy drawls out lazily. He’s obviously had too much to drink to bother random women sitting alone at the bar.

“Look,” she starts with a deep breath, barely holding it, “I’ll only say this one more time. Just. Fuck. Off.”

He grabs her arm roughly right after she spits the words in his face. There’s a brief struggle as she manages to brush off his grip, kicking him in the shins. She jumps to her feet as he backs off.

“You touch me again, I will FUCKING – ”

She can’t finish her sentence because the dickhead has one arm raised above her and Dean’s suddenly there.

He doesn’t actually remember moving but he’s somehow between her and the big abusive asshole, grabbing his raised arm and blocking him.

“Hey tough guy, why don’t you mess with someone your own size?” he sneers with a nod of his head.

Tough guy tries to get his arm out of Dean’s clutch but Dean only squeezes tighter as if he’s trying to make a fist. He finds himself wondering if he could burst this guy’s forearm like a water balloon – the blood and bone and cartilage spewing around in every direction. Dean blinks a couple times to get the disturbing images out of his head. He doesn’t know where that sick thought came from but his head is still in the game here. When the asshole can’t succeed in the task to save his arm, he tries to punch Dean with his other hand but Dean blocks that move easily as well.

“That all you got?” he asks smirking.

Dickhead’s eyes wander around from Dean to the girl to the bartender and then back to Dean in a moment. Dean’s pleased with seeing the panic and humiliation in them.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says roughly, shoving the guy backwards, “Now pick your sorry ass up and get the fuck outta here.”

Dickhead stumbles with the force of Dean’s shove and dives into the crowd of bodies behind him as soon as he regains his balance. He doesn’t even turn to look back at them once.

Dean’s whole body is buzzing with the promise of violence as he watches the guy get lost inside the crowd. He doesn’t know about the expression on his face, but a few people close to him are looking kinda spooked so he tries to tune it down a little bit before turning to face the woman Dickhead was bothering.

“You okay?” he asks, searching her face. Her jaw is tight and she still looks a bit like she’s fuming.

“I’m fine,” she says with a nod, tucking her thick, brown hair behind her ear, “You didn’t have to do that,” she adds, frowning. “I was dealing with him.”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I know, I just didn’t want any blood spilt is all.”

That manages to get a chuckle out of her.

“I swear, some people deserve to have their blood spilt,” she blurts heatedly as she settles back on her stool. “I just wanted some peace and me-time and it’s all ruined now. That asshole got me all worked up.”

“Nahh,” Dean says, waving a hand in the air to reject the idea as he sits back down on his own stool, “You just need some good scotch, a glass or two. And you’re good as new.”

He’s probably slurring his words at this point but she still nods solemnly, “That’s a good idea.”

Dean studies her for a moment as she stares at her dry martini. She looks young but not too young – late twenties maybe, could she be thirty? He keeps his gaze on her profile and can’t help but think that she looks a bit troubled, as if something’s on her mind and she can’t keep herself from poking at it. He decides she could be thirty, after all.

She is pretty with all that long, dark hair and big brown eyes but Dean doesn’t give her the once over. He’s just not feeling it, right now. He’s way too drunk and miserable to hit on her and besides, she wants to be left alone.

So he downs the rest of his drink and signals the bartender for another as they sit in comfortable silence. As the bartender is pouring down the amber liquid into his glass, Dean glances sideways at her and feels like he has to ask, at least to be polite.

“Hey, you uhh…?” Dean rambles, nodding towards the whiskey. He doesn’t really want to form the full sentence – _Can I buy you a drink?_ – when he’s not actually looking to be laid.

Her eyebrows shoot up high for a second as she contemplates the offer. “Oh, no, thanks,” she mutters, looking a tad bit embarrassed. “I can’t start with the whiskey or I’ll never stop.”

“I hear you,” Dean mutters with a one-sided smirk, “Know the feeling but I don’t wanna stop tonight.” He tilts his head and fills his mouth with the bitter liquor, wincing slightly at the burn as he swallows. “Or possibly ever,” he adds as an afterthought.

She gives him a vaguely amused look. “Well, that sounds healthy.”

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. When he looks back at her, she’s raising her fancy martini glass towards him and smiling. She has a beautiful smile; Dean thinks she should smile more often. “To your health,” she announces and waits for him to raise his glass in return before taking a big sip.

The conversation dies out after that once more. But in some weird kind of way, it’s not uncomfortable or awkward. Dean drinks two more doubles as she moves onto her second martini. He realizes something he never knew before: It feels good to sit with some total stranger at a bar – an extra stool separating them – and not talk. Not feel the need to talk.

What can Dean say at this point, anyway? More lies? His whole life is a big lie within a lie wrapped in an even bigger lie. He lies professionally, on a daily basis. And staying silent for once is relaxing. Redeeming. He doesn’t have to lie if he doesn’t talk. Because lies are the only things that ever come out of his mouth. He isn’t trying to pick her up so he doesn’t have to make small talk and lie about pretty much everything about himself during that. This is definitely better.

He orders another glass of the good stuff and notices the bartender giving him the squinty eyes, tips him extra so that he’ll keep his friggin’ mouth shut.

When he turns back, she’s downing the rest of her martini with a blissful look on her face. She hops off her stool and grabs her purse before facing him.

“So, it was nice to meet you…?” she says with a tiny lilt of her voice in the end and offers him a small, almost tired smile.

Dean blinks at her a couple times before his drunk brain catches up. “Dean,” he offers back with what he hopes is something close to a polite smile.

“Dean,” she repeats, enthusiastic, “I’m Jo – Jolene, actually.”

Dean finds himself staring into her warm, brown eyes and thinking of another pair of eyes similar to them. The name tearing at something violently like a wild animal inside his chest.

“I knew a Jo once,” he mutters absently. He doesn’t really notice he says it out loud. He’s remembering her last touch – gentle as she’d never been when she was still alive, but so cold.

He slaps back to the moment with the feeling of a hesitant hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry,” she whispers and she sounds like she means it.

Dean nods at her fervently and looks down to the floor in order to hide the moisture in his eyes.

“Hey, Dean?” she begins softly, “Do you think maybe you’ve had enough scotch for tonight?”

Dean blinks at her stupidly. She squirms a bit.

“I mean, did you drive here? ‘Cause I don’t think you should be driving, right now.”

Dean sets his jaw and grunts a stubborn “I’m fine.”

Jo just stands there and stares at him helplessly, one hand still resting on his arm. “Look,” she starts with a sigh, “You helped me tonight with that asshole. I just wanna return the favor.”

The bartender chimes in right then, that sneaky bastard. “Guys, we’re closing in fifteen”.

Dean has no choice but to go with her.

*

Dean isn’t sober enough to pinpoint the exact moment that shit hit the fan. It was probably when someone jumped in front of him suddenly and landed a few solid punches as he was trying to make sense of the situation.

It was Dickhead.

And now, Dean’s fighting with everything he’s got because he’s drunk enough that he can’t walk on a straight line. What’s worse is that Dickhead actually has friends – two of them.

Any ordinary day, Dean would probably take all three of them down under two minutes. But tonight, his body just can’t pump adrenalin fast enough to overcome the alcohol. Not to mention his arm pulsing and throbbing with every punch, sending aftershocks through his whole body.

Dean punches Dickhead again and elbows Stunt Guy #1, realizing that he’s started buzzing and humming all over again. Maybe he should’ve listened to Cain’s list of side-effects and contraindications.

Dickhead has a thick head, though and he doesn’t go down easily so Dean pummels down on him mercilessly. Once he’s on the ground, Dean goes to town on him and doesn’t stop even when he hears the sick crunching sound of bones or feels his hands sticky and wet with things worse than just blood.

Stunt Guy #2 tries to get him off of Dickhead but Dean offers him a pretty solid head-butt and he, too, ends up on the ground.

When he notices Dickhead’s not moving anymore, Dean gets off of him and turns to meet Stunt Guy #1. He can do this all night.

You’d think he’d be satisfied by the amount of violence he unleashes on all those monsters and demons while working jobs. But Dean’s as far from satisfied as he can possibly be. Hell, he’s almost hungry for this.

He can definitely do this all night.

Stunt Guy #1 charges towards him and Dean kicks him on the chest hard, following him to the ground when he goes down. He grabs the lapels of the guy’s jacket and hauls him upright, throwing him towards the wall of the building beside the parking lot. “C’mon big guy, fight me,” he taunts as he lands in a few good punches to the guy’s gut, knocking the breath out of him in the process.

He’s moving in for the final blow when all of a sudden, everything goes black.

*

Dean can hear a woman cursing.

“Dammit, where the hell is it?!”

He grunts and opens his eyes, regretting it immediately. “Urgh, what the – ”

“Dean!” she exclaims and her voice is too loud. He grimaces at the pain pulsating inside his head but manages a peek at her.

It’s Jo. Not Jo-Jo. But Jo as in – Jolene?

“Oh, thank fuck you’re awake!” she gasps and puts a hand on his face. Dean doesn’t know what good that will do. “Are you alright? Can you stand up? _Should_ you be standing up? Aaargh, I have to call 911 but I can’t find my phone!”

Alarms set off in Dean’s head at the mention of 911. He can’t let her call 911; he’s fine and the last thing he needs are the damn cops on his tail once again.

He tries to sit up and a piercing pain shoots through his side. Ribs? Dean lies back down and realizes that Jo’s sitting on the ground beside him, her legs folded underneath her. His head is cradled on her lap and he feels bad about that because there’s blood all over her jeans, now.

“’m fine,” he croaks out and finally manages to sit up, leaning heavily on his left arm and panting through the pain.

“You sure?” she asks, skeptical.

“Positive,” Dean assures her; although he knows he’s anything but fine. “What happened?”

She gives him a suspicious look as if she knows he’s changing the subject on purpose but she answers anyway. “That guy, the other one, hit you on the head with a club. You went down, I think you passed out on the spot but he kept hitting you and I didn’t know how else to stop him other than – ”

She looks embarrassed for a moment before finishing her sentence. “ – You know, hitting him with a tire iron.”

It’s so absurd Dean has to chuckle, even with the amount of pain he’s in. He feels the chuckle like a hundred stabs at his side. “You took him out with a tire iron?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He still alive?”

She considers it for a moment. “I think so. He had a pulse when I checked.”

Dean makes the mistake of nodding at that and suddenly he’s blind and nauseous with the pain pulsating through his whole body. Great, he probably has a concussion on top of the thing with the ribs.

“Good,” he manages to spit out from between clenched teeth. “Then we need to get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not sure you’re fit to be moving, yet.”

Dean ignores her and starts the painful process of climbing to his feet. To his relief, she gets with the program soon enough and helps him up. Dean’s not as big an idiot as many people think to refuse help at a moment like this.

“Alright,” he breathes out, “It was nice meeting you, Jo. Lovely night – we should do this again some time.” He starts shuffling slowly towards his car.

“Wait,” she calls after him and dammit, she’s just too loud! “Where do you think you’re going? You need to be in a hospital, right now. Dean!”

Dean turns to look at her as she falls into step beside him.

“I can’t go to the hospital, Jo. I don’t want any trouble with the cops or anything.”

“But – ”

“No buts. I’m goin’ home. You should do the same.” Dean’s tone is final.

She’s shaking her head, though. Why does she have to be so stubborn? Why does she show so much care and concern for a guy she only met a couple hours ago? His own brother probably wouldn’t be this worried about Dean. Huh, ain’t that the truth…

“You can’t drive like this,” she states in a matter-of-fact kind of way.

Dean gives her a smile; he’s going for cocky but it probably turns out bitter instead.

“I can,” he says, “and I will. ‘Cause you know why? I’ve driven in much worse conditions than this.” He points a finger at himself. “This? This is nothin’. I’m fine.”

She lets out an exasperated noise from her throat. Dean’s half expecting her to stomp her foot down on the ground. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” she growls, “I just wanna help you.”

Dean looks at her silently. She’s such a good person.

“Look,” she begins, gentler this time. “At least let me drive you home.”

“Oh, I’m not that kinda girl.” Dean manages a smirk this time.

She makes a face that can even challenge some of Sammy’s bitch-faces. “Cute,” she hisses.

“I know, I am.” He’s started thinking about Sam again and he doesn’t want to. He shakes his head to get rid of every trace of Sam and winces in pain once more. He hopes she didn’t notice.

She didn’t.

And Dean’s a sneaky bastard because he’s kept on walking all through their conversation and now he’s right next to the driver’s side door of his baby. He puts a loving hand on the cab and turns to look at Jo one last time.

“Good night, Jo,” he says, “I’m glad I met you.” He means it.

“Good night, Dean,” she mutters in response, sounding defeated, as he settles down behind the wheel embarrassingly slowly.

“Hey,” she calls out as an afterthought and Dean manages to hold himself before he winces again. “Can you at least give me your number so that I can call and make sure you didn’t crash somewhere on the way home?”

That’s sweet.

Dean gives her one of his business cards.

“Don’t worry, the number’s right,” he assures her as she frowns down at the card. It probably doesn’t say ‘Dean’. Hell, none of his cards do.

He turns the key and the car purrs into life.

“Hey Dean,” she calls out once again as he’s putting the car in gear and getting ready to return to a lonely home. Is it still home if you have no family in it?

Dean rolls down the window to hear her more clearly as he raises his eyes to meet hers.

“Whoever did this to you, whoever hurt you like this, broke you... Just, go talk to them. You don’t deserve to suffer like this.”

She looks so sad. Heartbroken.

Dean doesn’t know why.

Why does she care about him?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how it's happening exactly but this story is getting long. Hope I'm not boring you guys with all the hurt. 
> 
> Anyway, next chapter is most probably going to be the last chapter but I won't be able to finish it before the new episode. I can only hope 9x14 doesn't hurt as much as 9x13 did.
> 
> Tell me what you think about this, please?


	5. Lay your weary head to rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean holds his own for a single golden moment and then slowly, he starts to tilt sideways where he’s sitting, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It might have been funny if he was only drunk and not also in pain. But right now, the sight of his bloodied brother about to pass out on his bed is nowhere near funny. It’s downright miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I must have got really rusty at writing because apparently I forgot how to plan a story and split it into chapters. Initially, I thought this was going to be the last chapter. But no, this still isn't the last chapter. I'm thinking the next one most definitely will be.

**Chapter 5 – Lay your weary head to rest  
**

Sam manages to get Dean to his room in a little over five minutes but it feels like an eternity of guiding his stumbling brother down steep stairs, tricky steps and through dimly lit hallways – hallways too narrow for them to walk down side-by-side.

Dean almost falls down the stairs twice. Then once again, he nearly falls flat on his face at the couple steps that descend to the corridor leading to their rooms. After every last-second maneuver Sam makes to prevent the fall, Dean’s body jerks and his arm goes over his stomach. Sam has to stop and steady his brother on his feet for a few moments as Dean pants through the pain.

Apart from the panting and the gasping he can’t seem to help, Dean never says anything to indicate that Sam’s sudden, grabby movements are painful for him. Although he keeps protesting with that ridiculous slur – _‘mm fi-iii-ne_ – all the way to his room.

Sam’s aware he’s octopusing Dean a little, even though he gave up that right a while ago when he told him he wanted to keep things ‘strictly business’. So he’s just grateful Dean doesn’t fight his tight grip on the arm slung around Sam’s shoulders or try to shrug off Sam’s arm from around his own. Despite his claims to the contrary, Dean’s pretty beat up and he probably doesn’t have the physical or mental strength to try to get away from Sam – it’s as simple as that.

With the way Dean’s cradling his ribs with one arm and the general lack of motor coordination, Sam is suspecting bruised, maybe even busted ribs _and_ a concussion on top of the numerous bruises he can see on the outside.

Cataloguing all the damage to his brother’s body, Sam just can’t figure out how in hell Dean managed to drive back home in this state.

Drive back home. Home.

Yes, that’s what he thought. So maybe, this is home for him, too.

Sam thinks Dean would be pleased to hear that so he turns to face his brother stupidly, as if he has the guts to tell him how he also kind of sees the bunker as home, too.

He doesn’t say anything to Dean, though, because Sam knows he set the rules himself. That’s why he can’t be the one to break them. That and he’s still angry.

Instead, he blinks at Dean’s bloody, bruised profile as they enter his brother’s room. Dean’s oddly silent; his eyes barely open. His breaths are labored and his face is a disturbing mix of blood and sweat over swollen flesh. He’s half hunched over, scuffing his feet on the floor as he makes his way into the room with Sam’s hands all over him. Dean looks so hurt and miserable and just all-over _broken_ that Sam almost forgets his anger at the warm rush of worry and compassion the sight triggers deep inside him.

Sam swallows as they walk the short distance to Dean’s bed. He wants to say something but he can’t find the words. He lets out a shallow sigh and swallows again, trying to be as gentle as he can as he settles Dean down on the side of the bed.

Dean holds his own for a single golden moment and then slowly, he starts to tilt sideways where he’s sitting, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It might have been funny if he was only drunk and not also in pain. But right now, the sight of his bloodied brother about to pass out on his bed is nowhere near funny. It’s downright miserable.

Lost in thought, Sam is only a few seconds too late to reach Dean and help him lie down: Dean has let go of himself completely to hit the pillows, but instead, his body jerks and comes to an abrupt halt almost immediately. He lets out a sharp hiss and wraps his arms around his middle in obvious agony.

“Dean!” Sam calls out, worried.

Dean apparently can’t help the faint whimper escaping his lips.

“Dean, hey!” repeats Sam patiently, trying to shift his brother’s attention away from the pain. He puts a hand on one side of Dean’s face and gives a couple hesitant pats to his cheek before tilting Dean’s head up to see his eyes.

“Hey, you with me?” he asks. Boy, isn’t that a loaded question.

Dean’s eyes are red-rimmed with booze and lack of sleep, glazed over with pain. Sam has time to notice because Dean sits there and blinks at him for a couple seconds as if he’s trying to bring him into focus.

“Dean?” he can’t help but push for a reply, a confirmation, anything.

“S-sam…” Dean croaks out from between clenched teeth. His head starts to loll back so Sam grabs his face with both hands and leans in so he can talk without raising his voice. Dean still cringes at Sam’s first ‘Hey!’, making Sam think if the emergency neurological assessment is really necessary to determine whether Dean has a concussion. He has to be sure, though; it can be something much worse than a concussion, especially if Dean really took a club to the head.

“Hey, Dean, look at me,” he says, lowering his voice at the cringe he receives.

Dean blinks rapidly and is finally able to focus on Sam after a few seconds. “Wha-uh?” he murmurs.

Sam brings his right hand up in front of Dean’s face and makes a V sign. “How many fingers?” he asks quickly.

Even beat up as he is, Dean somehow manages to look offended at the question. “Two,” he spits out with a look that says ‘Really?’, complete with arched eyebrows and everything.

“Good,” Sam nods and moves onto the next question. “Where are you?”

Dean’s eyes slide over Sam’s shoulder. “M’room.”

“And where’s that?” Sam asks, snapping his fingers, “Hey, look at me.”

“Bunker,” Dean answers dutifully.

“Great,” Sam says, encouraging. He isn’t exactly sure who he’s encouraging, though – Dean or himself. “What year is it?”

“Tweny-fourteen,” mutters Dean, looking irritated. “U-urgh… Done with tweny q’stions?”

Sam gives him a gentle squeeze on the neck. Again, he doesn’t really know if it’s for Dean’s benefit or his own. It’s just good to know that Dean most likely has nothing worse than a concussion. He still needs to check this one last thing, though.

Sam looks around the room to see if he can spot a penlight or something similar. Even a flashlight will do but he can’t spot any. He can go get the first aid kit but he doesn’t want to leave Dean alone without at least getting him horizontal first.

In the end, Sam is reduced to trying to see if Dean’s pupils differ in size in the dim light of the room. That is, until he realizes he could use the flash from his phone.

He puts one hand at the back of Dean’s neck and leans in close once again. “All right,” he mutters under his breath, “This is gonna be horrible.”

He shines the light on Dean’s right eye. Dean shuts both his eyes tightly with a ‘Fuck!’ at the sudden onslaught of the bright light.

“Dean, I need to see your eyes,” Sam tries to explain. “Come on; open them, just for a second.”

Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut, his brows pulled together in a pain-filled frown. “Head’s alr’dy killin’ me – ”

“I know,” Sam interrupts. “I’ll give you something for the headache after this, come on.”

Sam can’t help but smile a little as Dean’s features relax and his eyes flutter open reluctantly. He looks like a petulant little kid all of a sudden and Sam has no idea how he manages that with all the bruises and blood covering his face.

Shaking his head slightly, he holds open one of Dean’s eyes with two fingers as he shines the light on it and then does the same for the other one. The pupils seem equal in size. Ignoring Dean’s weak protests, he does a back and forth just to be sure.

As soon as he releases the skin around his fingers, Dean’s eyes fall shut. He even grunts and puts a hand over them for good measure.

Sam turns off the light from his phone and lets out a big breath. It’s probably just a concussion, nothing more serious. He’ll still need to watch Dean for a while, though. Head injuries are no joke; you never know what could happen.

Sam doesn’t think he can sleep, anyway. So he’ll just hang around and keep an eye on Dean as he sleeps it off. But first, he needs to check the ribs. He figures that’ll be easy once Dean’s lying down but getting him out of all those layers without hurting him further or possibly puncturing a lung with a broken rib is gonna be tricky.

It has to be done, though, so Sam sets to work.

After a fair amount of pained gasps and unintelligible grunts mixed with Sam’s own senseless murmurs – he hopes it’s comforting – Dean’s jacket is on the floor. His brother isn’t really looking any worse for wear, either. So Sam loses no time to get rid of the faded green shirt next, silently thankful that there doesn’t seem to be much blood on it. It’s one of Dean’s favorites.

They’re down to the last layer, now. Dean’s breathing has become labored once more, which is why Sam doesn’t even bother asking him if he can raise his arms so Sam can get his t-shirt off. He probably can’t, anyway. Instead, Sam grips the hem of the t-shirt in both hands and starts ripping it in two. It’s just a plain black tee; Dean wouldn’t mind even if he wasn’t half passed-out.

“S’mmy,” Dean mumbles almost incoherently as Sam slides the t-shirt over his shoulders with practiced care.

“It’s alright, Dean,” Sam answers, throwing the now ruined garment to the floor. He takes a quick glance at the revealed skin of his brother’s upper body and can’t help but recoil at the sight. His left side is covered with already darkening, angry bruises and his right side is only slightly better in comparison. No wonder Dean’s been so vocal with all the hissing and gasping so far.

Sam sighs loudly and tries to ignore the nasty voice inside his head telling him that this is all his fault. Dean’s in this much pain because of him. Because he said –

Sam blinks and pinches the bridge of his nose for what feels like the hundredth time that night. He has to snap out of it because his brother needs him, right now. After all, if Dean ended up beaten to a bloody pulp because of him, Sam should at least be able to patch him up. Even if Dean isn’t exactly a saint in this whole mess.

With another sigh, he bends over Dean and splays his hands across his shoulder blades as he gets ready to help him lie down on the bed. “Okay,” he begins, “You need to lie down, Dean, so just lean back a little and let me do the work, alright?”

Dean blinks confused eyes at him but seems to get the general idea of lying down on the bed as he leans back against Sam’s hands. Sam starts to lower him down but immediately stops at Dean’s pained wince. “Dean,” he says, putting his left hand high on his brother’s chest. “Just let go, man, let me take your weight. You’re hurting yourself.”

Sam pushes on Dean’s chest gently with his hand and feels the moment his abdominals relax. Dean sags against the hand at his back as Sam supports his full weight and lowers him down on to mattress carefully. He hopes Dean’s precious memory foam will help keep him a little more comfortable at this point.

Arranging the pillows beneath his head, Sam grins faintly at the memory of the glee on Dean’s face when he talked about his new mattress. It feels like a lifetime ago since they had that conversation. Sam can’t believe it hasn’t even been a year. So much has happened, so much has changed and not for the better, either. He’s so tired he can feel the ache in his bones like an old man.

Sam thinks it _should_ have been a lifetime ago since he teased his brother for nesting that day… His lifetime. He should have died. Maybe he didn’t really _want_ to die but he was ready to die. So he should have died and he should have stayed dead this time. And who knows how many people would be saved if he’d gone through with it? Thousands? Millions? Sam could have saved them but he chose his own life over theirs and now he’s carrying around the weight of the doom of millions of people. People he could have saved but simply chose not to.

So he can blame Dean for Gadreel but it’s not fair to blame him for not finishing the trials. Sam knows that now, but he _did_ put the blame of the unfinished trials on Dean not ten days ago. No, that’s on Sam.

He couldn’t sacrifice himself because he simply wasn’t strong enough. Dean literally begged him to stop and he caved. Because just this once, he didn’t want to let Dean down. He could have said goodbye, he could have finished it, once and for all. But in the end, he didn’t really want to die. Mostly because he didn’t want to put Dean through that all over again.

Near the end, he could feel he wasn’t gonna make it out of the trials. He could feel whatever it was that was inside him, ripping him apart. But he still wanted to go through with it because he couldn’t see any other way. He could no longer find his way around the maze of regret, disappointment and pain that was his life. So he wanted to take the only exit he could see, he wanted to reach the end.

Until his brother shone the light on a different path. Until Dean looked him in the eye and showed him another way.

Sam made a decision in that church that night. He chose the way Dean showed him.

Maybe it wasn’t the best way but it was their way.

So does he regret choosing it?

Yes. Yes, he does.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that regret, with that guilt. He doesn’t know how to deal with it. And then there’s this entire fiasco with Gadreel. Dean’s hopeless distrust in Sam leading him to such a horrible betrayal: Yet another monster yanking his chain around for months, this time with much needed help from his brother. How is he supposed to work through that?

_“You chose to live rather than to sacrifice yourself. You and Dean... You chose each other.”_

Castiel’s voice echoes inside his head. He can’t regret choosing Dean. Not really. But how could Dean do what he did, after everything they’ve been through?

So yeah, Sam regrets it, after all. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe a part of him is okay with being alive, being here with Dean. Because there really isn’t any other explanation as to why he hasn’t left already. Hell, he was even angry at Dean for leaving.

Sam shakes his head hopelessly. He feels like his brain is frying inside his skull these days. His chest is always tight and he just – he can’t breathe sometimes.

Sam runs a heavy hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh. He stares at his broken brother lying on the bed, motionless. Sam doesn’t know how they got here. He doesn’t know how or even _if_ they can fix this.

He hopes he can at least fix the damage on the outside, though. So he perches on the edge of the bed and starts pushing at the bruises gently, feeling around for broken bones.

Dean’s eyes flutter open as Sam pushes and prods at his lower chest and abdomen. He sucks in a number of sharp breaths at the pain his exploring fingers must be causing. When Sam reaches the worst bruises on his left, Dean can’t hold the moan inside any longer. Sam winces at the strain in Dean’s voice but continues his inspections.

As he presses down on one particularly nasty bruise on his lower left side, Dean finally cries out and tries to jackknife into a sitting position reflexively. Sam shushes him and helps him back down on the bed as he shakes with the aftershocks. It must be a floating rib fracture. Sam can’t exactly tell which one – eleventh or twelfth – but it doesn’t really matter. Both could puncture Dean’s left lung. So he needs to see if Dean is breathing properly.

He can’t check his brother’s breathing when he’s practically whimpering, though, so Sam makes a quick run to the kitchen and grabs a couple of icepacks from the freezer. When he returns to the room, Dean’s no longer shaking but his eyes are squeezed shut and his lashes are wet.

Sam carefully disentangles Dean’s arms from around his middle with a whispered “Hey, Dean, it’s okay. It’s okay…”

He wraps the icepacks in the dishtowel he grabbed from the kitchen and places them on Dean’s left side gently, making sure to cover the busted ribs. “Better?” he asks after a moment.

Dean’s wet lashes flutter against bloody cheeks. “Mmmm…” he hums.

“Good,” Sam says practically to no one, his lips twitching into an uneasy smile. Dean is this close to passing out; Sam doubts he can hear him.

He watches Dean for a little while. His brother looks younger somehow, lying on the bed, bloody, bruised and covered with icepacks. He looks almost frail, like he had been a long time ago, before he had a chance to grow into his body.

Sam suddenly finds himself looking at a barely 17-year-old Dean passed out on a motel mattress, bloody and bruised. The poltergeist had roughed him up pretty bad – broken bones and everything. Sam remembers being so mad with Dad for not taking Dean to the E.R. when he obviously needed it. He scoffs at the memory. Here he is, doing the exact same thing. Is he any better than John Winchester?

Shaking his head, he glances at Dean’s face one last time before getting up and making his way to the bathroom. He comes back with a thoroughly wetted washcloth in one hand and starts wiping Dean’s face clean with it as he waits for his breathing to even out.

A couple minutes later, Dean’s face and neck are clean. Without the dried blood and sweat, his split lip and brow stand out stark against the sickly pallor of his skin. Sam isn’t sure whether the unhealthy skin color is due to the sheer amount of alcohol Dean has consumed, or simply because of the pain he’s in. Probably both.

His eyes roam over his brother’s body, checking for any possible injuries he might have missed before. That’s when he sees it clearly for the first time, his eyes locking on Dean’s upturned forearm: The scar is ugly and red, rising furiously from his brother’s pale skin. The Mark of Cain. From Lucifer himself. The mark that has tainted the Father of Murder for millennia.

Sam is reaching over to run his fingers over it before he knows what’s happening. He stops himself at the last moment, freezing in motion. He doesn’t want to startle Dean and to be honest; he is a bit leery of the damn thing. It’s supposed to be a curse, after all and it is originated from Sam’s worst nightmare himself.

He chuckles humorlessly. It’s supposed to be a curse, from Lucifer, and Dean went and got himself branded with it. That’s his self-loathing brother, alright.

Sam tries to forget about the mark and the curse and Lucifer as he settles himself more securely on the bed and leans over to put his head against Dean’s chest. He tries to keep his weight off Dean as he listens to him breathe.

In-out-in-out-in-out.

Dean’s breathing is too shallow for Sam’s liking.

In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out.

He listens to different parts of Dean’s chest, left and right, wishing he had a stethoscope. He remembers having one a million years ago but he isn’t about to go ransack the trunk of the Impala for it. The bunker is quiet enough; he can hear Dean breathe in and out.

In-out-in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out.

Other than the fact that his breaths are shallow, Sam doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. No wheezing, no whistling or any other dangerous sound coming from Dean’s chest. His lungs thankfully sound intact.

Sam knows he can’t let Dean keep up with the shallow breathing for long, though. He will need to force himself to take deeper breaths, cough and clear his lungs periodically or he could get pneumonia on top of everything else.

Sam would give him some Advil or Tylenol for the chest pain as well as the headache from the concussion but with the amount of alcohol running through Dean’s veins right now, it’s a damn miracle he isn’t bleeding internally. Granted, Sam isn’t 100% sure about that. But he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t need any drugs with blood-thinning effects on top of all that alcohol.

He’s about to raise his head from his brother’s chest when a clumsy hand is suddenly placed on top of it.

“S’mmy,” Dean mutters, patting his head awkwardly. Sam can hear the echo of his name from deep inside Dean’s chest.

“Yeah, Dean?” he answers without raising his head. Listening to the sounds inside Dean’s chest is reassuring, somehow.

“Sammy,” his brother states more clearly this time.

Sam blinks and raises his head to look up at Dean, whose hand on his head has slid down to his cheek with the motion.

Dean pats his cheek this time, focusing weary, miserable eyes on his face. “S’mmy, d’ya wanna die?”

Something falls inside Sam’s chest, shattering into a thousand pieces at the defeated tone in his brother’s voice; at the broken, lost look in his eyes. He tries to breathe through it as he places a hand on Dean’s, holding it against his face. “Dean, I –”

“Why – d’you…? Why’d’ya wanna die?” Sam can see his brother’s eyes filling, his split bottom lip trembling.

Sam squeezes Dean’s hand and places their joint hands on his chest, rising up to face him better. “I don’t,” he says, making sure to catch Dean’s watery eyes, “I don’t wanna die, Dean.” He can’t let him think that.

“No?” Dean asks. There’s a hint of desperation in his voice.

Sam shakes his head in response, concentrating on the fluttering beat of Dean’s heart beneath his hand. “No, I don’t. But…” he scoffs before continuing, “I’m just so tired, Dean…”

Dean blinks back at him with exhausted eyes. “Me, too, Sammy –” He seems to sober up for a second then “ – Sam. Me, too.”

Drunk, concussed and suffering from broken ribs, Dean is still making an effort to call him ‘Sam’ instead of ‘Sammy’. Sam’s chest tightens at this horrible revelation: _He_ did this. He told Dean they couldn’t be brothers and –

“Just want you t’be okay, S’mmy – Sam,” Dean murmurs, his voice breaking.

“I know,” Sam tries to reassure, “I know, Dean.” Dean’s heart is like a trapped fledgling underneath his skin, fluttering hesitantly and beating against its cage hopelessly. His breathing sounds hitched and Sam is afraid he’s going to hurt himself.

He just wants Dean to go to sleep so they can stop talking about this.

“Hey, Dean, you need to – ”

“’s why I want’d t’do it,” Dean mutters absently, his eyes finally fluttering closed. Two lone tears make their way down towards his temples as he whispers to himself “Screw’d up.”

Sam isn’t entirely sure what he’s talking about. “What?” he asks before he can stop himself to let Dean rest.

“Friggin’ hellhound,” Dean mutters as he blinks open wet eyes. “Should’ve ganked it.”

“What?!” Sam asks again, louder this time. He’s so mad all of a sudden. “You should have killed the hellhound and finished the trials, is that it?” He can’t believe this.

Dean frowns at him, looking confused. “Yeah…”

Sam nods fervently, tears pooling in his eyes. “And would you have stopped, at the last second, if I barged in and begged you not to do it?”

Dean starts to shake his head but has to stop, wincing. “You wouldn’ – ”

“I would,” Sam interrupts. “So would you stop?”

Dean blinks at him a few times, then. Sam can’t really see the expression on his face with the damn tears clouding his vision.

“Yeah,” he hears Dean croak out after a moment, “If that’s what you want’d, S’mmy.” He shakes his head violently this time, letting out a shaky whimper at the pain. “But you wouldn’t.”

Sam leans in and holds Dean’s face in his hands to keep him from shaking his head again. “I would, Dean,” he says with conviction. But he can see still the denial in Dean’s eyes. “I would beg you to stop.”

Then he releases Dean’s face abruptly and sits up. He can’t let this go on, he has to let his brother sleep. He swallows all those words about to spill over both of them and tries to smile through the vice around his chest.

“You need to get some rest, Dean,” he says convincingly, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. With a final pat against it, he stands up and starts getting Dean comfortable so he can sleep.

He arranges the icepacks around Dean’s ribs, takes off his boots and pulls a light blanket over him. That’s about all he can do right now and it’s probably as comfortable as Dean’s going to get with a concussion and busted ribs.

Sam has even started to feel a bit better during the five minutes it takes to look after Dean like this, the smoke from that painful conversation starting to clear finally.

And then as Sam is arranging his pillows, Dean has to go and ask, his voice truly puzzled:

“Why’re you doin’ this?”

Someone must be stomping on the shattered pieces of that fallen something inside Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and congratulations if you really made it to the end of this long, long chapter. I'm a little unsure about the characterization of Dean in this chapter but from what I've read on concussions and mild traumatic brain injuries, confusion, sadness and being more emotional than normal can be symptoms so... I played with these a little bit.
> 
> I'm seriously hoping you guys will tell me what you think about this. Am I over-writing it or something?


	6. Your head is humming and it won't go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed his brother that night – the night he left, not even able to look Sam in the eye for more than a few seconds. He needed Dean to be there, not Cas. He needed Dean and not to talk to or to yell at. Not even to tear him a new one because dammit, how could you Dean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry about all these endless weeks it took me to update this. Thank you for not giving up on me. 
> 
> I know I previously said this would be the last chapter. I feel like I should warn you because boy, I turned out to be such a liar. This is a long one, but it's definitely not the last one.
> 
> The title is from Stairway To Heaven.

**Chapter 6 - Your head is humming and it won't go**

Sam runs out of Dean’s room pretty spectacularly after squeezing out a weak ‘Try to get some sleep, Dean’ from around the lump in his throat.

Surprisingly, he’s preserved enough awareness of his surroundings to pick up Dean’s bloody clothes on his way out. Shutting the door with a trembling hand, he stands in the hallway with his brother’s blood-stained jacket and shirt for a moment to try to get himself under control.

_“_ _Why_ _’_ _re you doin'_ _this?_ _”_

Dean’s broken, confused voice echoes inside his head. His brother sounded like he genuinely needed an answer to that question. As if he didn’t know…

What is the answer anyway?

_Because you're my brother._

_‘Cause it's what we always do._

_Because you're hurt._

_Because I care._

_‘Cause you’re my big brother and I l –_

Sam finally lets the tears fall in the dim shelter of the hallway where he’s sure no one can see. He tries to breathe through it helplessly, to keep his shoulders from shaking so that he can stop. Just stop. If he can control his body, maybe he can control –

He wipes his face on his sleeve and takes a deep breath. He can’t go back inside, not like this. But he can’t leave Dean alone for long, either. The fact that he hasn’t thrown up yet doesn’t mean he won’t, especially with a concussion on top of all that alcohol. And what’s worse is that Sam can’t even lay him on his stomach to be safe.

Clutching Dean’s clothes in a tight fist, Sam continues to take deep breaths until his vision clears completely. And then he finally figures out what to do. He’ll deal with the blood stains for a little while – give Dean enough time to pass out – and then he’ll return to his sleeping brother’s side. Because he can’t take Dean like this – all open and raw with booze, pain and brain injury. No, Sam just can’t bear it. Because he’s a coward.

He can tear up his brother, rip out his insides and stomp on them ruthlessly. He can take all his pain and frustration and anger out on the one person who would allow him to do that and worse.

But he’s too chicken to pick up the pieces after.

Yeah, that’s who Sam is.

Sam is the kind of person who would let his big brother go around thinking his little brother doesn’t care about him. Sam is the kind of person to tell his brother they can’t be family anymore and rub his face in it after.

Sam is a cruel bastard all right.

What Dean did, screwed Sam up pretty bad. He’s messed up, he knows that. But Dean isn’t much better, either. Sam knows that, too. He can see it in Dean’s every move, every look. And yet, he had to keep pushing him away. He had to bleed Dean in return, instead of trying to explain how exactly he had hurt Sam. Explain and wait for him to understand. Wait for him to finally say he wouldn’t do it ever again.

That’s all Sam needs.

But the feeling of betrayal is floating too close to the surface still and Sam can’t wriggle out of his anger’s tight, unyielding grip to go to a calm place inside his head long enough to explain.

He needed his brother that night – the night he left, not even able to look Sam in the eye for more than a few seconds. He needed _Dean_ to be there, not Cas. He needed Dean and not to talk to or to yell at. Not even to tear him a new one because _dammit,_ _how could you Dean?_

No, he just needed Dean. So he could know – so he could know it was real, Dean was real and he was with him.

But Sam couldn’t say it then and he definitely can’t say it, now.

So this is where they end up.

Angry and broken. Together and alone.

Sam runs his free hand through his hair as he finally starts towards the bathroom, sighing. He wants to stop thinking so bad.

_“_ _If that_ 's _what you want_ _’_ _d, S_ _’_ _mmy_ _…_ _But you wouldn_ _’_ _t._ _”_

Dean’s slurred sentences keep floating around his head as he walks. His brother begged Sam in that church to choose him. And he did, just like Cas said. Sam chose Dean, they chose each other, over everything. And yet, Dean is somehow so sure Sam wouldn’t ask him to make that same choice. Dean thinks Sam would just sacrifice him or let him sacrifice himself.

_“_ _Just want you t_ _’_ _be okay, S_ _’_ _mmy_ _…"_

It’s why Dean wanted to do the trials himself in the first place. He always thought it was a suicide mission. Sam knew this. That’s why he insisted on doing them himself after the hellhound. He wasn’t lying about the light at the end of the tunnel. He’d really believed they could make it this time. Together.

He scoffs as he switches on the bathroom light; even the air tastes bitter in his mouth.

Leaving Dean’s green shirt on top of the counter, he starts checking his jacket pockets so that nothing important gets wet.

That’s when he finds Dean’s phone. It looks busted; no wonder Sam’s calls went straight to voicemail. For a moment, he feels stupidly relieved at the evidence showing that Dean wasn’t intentionally avoiding him by shutting off his phone. Shaking his head at that sorry thought, he removes the battery and after a quick inspection, decides it’s safe to put back in to see whether the phone is any good after the apparent beating it took along with its owner.

The screen is cracked but the phone is still working, so Sam enters Dean’s PIN and turns it on.

It turns out the damage was only on the outside. As he stands in the confined space of the bathroom, Sam wishes wistfully that he could say the same thing about his brother.

He puts the phone on the counter to go deal with the bloodstains on Dean’s jacket. But it starts ringing almost immediately.

Sam’s insides clench with dread and worry. It’s almost 05:30 in the morning. He doesn’t think anything good can come out of a phone call at this hour. He answers anyway.

“Hello?”

“Umm, hey... Dean?” The definitely female voice at the other end of the line sounds unsure.

“Sorry, this isn’t D – ”

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, “I probably woke you up at this hour. But he said the number was right…”

“No, hey no, you didn’t wake me,” Sam tries to reassure, “It’s okay. I was just trying to say I’m not Dean.”

Sam hears a soft chuckle. “Yeah, I got that. You don’t really sound like him, anyway,” she starts. “I just thought that – you know what? It was stupid, really. I mean, according to the card he gave me, his name is supposed to be Billy Gibbons. Except, he told me it was Dean and he was about 35 years too young to be Billy Gibbons. Not to mention the lack of the epic beard…”

As he listens, Sam finds himself smiling at her rambling despite everything.  

“… Anyway, this is clearly a wrong number, I’m really sor – ”

“No, no, it’s not a wrong number,” Sam cuts her off.

She scoffs. “Well, you sound a little too young to be Billy Gibbons.”

Sam laughs lightly at the mock suspicion in her tone. The situation is so absurd he can’t help it. “No, I mean this is Dean’s phone. You got the right number.”

“Oh,” she mutters, sobering up instantly. “Umm, so is he with you, right now? Is he okay?”

Sam feels himself tense up. This woman knows something about Dean. No matter how amusing she is, Sam can’t let his guard down, though. “Uhh – sorry, who is this again?”

“Oh, right,” she mutters, almost to herself. “My name is Jo. I met Dean a couple hours ago, at a bar in town. He was pretty drunk and there was a fight and I just, I couldn’t… I just wanted to make sure he made it home okay ‘cause he wouldn’t let me take him to the E.R. or at least drop him off at his place. I had to nag him to give me his number – ”

“Yeah, that sounds like Dean,” Sam sighs. “Listen, uhh Jo, my name is Sam. Dean’s my brother.”

“Great, so he made it home then?” She sounds relieved.

“Yeah, a little over half an hour ago. He’s asleep right now.” At least, Sam hopes he is.

“That’s really good to hear. I mean, I kept imagining him crashing that beautiful car and ending up lying in a ditch somewhere, where no one could find him in time. And then his phone was turned off and I just – ”

Her voice cuts off suddenly as if she’s put a hand over her mouth. Sam can feel the fear and worry over the phone, it’s almost tangible. This total stranger caring about his brother so much, it pulls at something deep inside his chest. Sam’s always known that Dean has that effect on people somehow. When he’s not intentionally being a jackass, that is. His brother just has this way about him… Hell, even Lucifer seemed to like him at some level.

He lets out a sharp huff at the thought and clears his throat before speaking.

“I’m sorry you were so worried,” he says softly. “To be honest, I was pretty worried, too, once I realized he’d left home after drinking. I didn’t – ”

“Wow!” she exclaims, back to her loud self again. “He started drinking at home? And the way he drank at the bar… I mean, he was pretty wasted towards the end but he still kicked those bastards’ asses all right.”

Sam asks her if she can fill him in on the details of this ‘ass-kicking’. She quickly does. After telling him about the douchebag who was bothering her, Dean stepping in and then the fight at the end of the night, she can’t help but add hesitantly:

“You know, Sam, don’t take this the wrong way but – the way Dean was fighting, no, beating those guys… I think things could have gone a lot worse if one of them didn’t knock him out with that club.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sam asks sharply. From what he’s heard so far, that jackass with the club gave Dean a concussion and broken ribs.

“I mean he was drunk, like pass-out-any-minute-on-the-asphalt drunk. But when we got jumped and he started fighting…” She takes a deep breath before going on. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that. He was – he was relentless – he was like a man possessed. I mean, the guy who harassed me in the bar? He was unrecognizable by the time Dean was finished with him. And all of that beating, it all happened in like a minute at tops. He would’ve kept going, too, if one of the other guys hadn’t charged him.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say to that. Dean’s capable of violence, sure, extreme violence. But his bar fights don’t usually get out of control like that.  

“I was scared,” Jo admits quietly. “I was scared someone would die. And I couldn’t do anything. I – I don’t think he even heard me…”

“I – I don’t know what to say, Jo. I’m really sorry.”

She lets out a deep sigh. It sounds terribly tired. “And then Dean wouldn’t wake up and I couldn’t find my phone to call 911…”

Sam stays silent, wondering if any of the guys who attacked Dean and Jo could be worse off than Dean. If she’s not exaggerating, they could be – especially the one with the tire iron blow to the head.

“Look, Jo, those guys… They apparently had it coming and anyway, I don’t think you left them to die or anything – ”

“Oh, no. I called 911 on my way home. Told them some bullshit about seeing these guys like that in the parking lot while I was walking home.”

“What?!”

“Well, I hung up pretty quickly after giving the address. I don’t think they’ll be able to track my call.” She doesn’t sound very sure.

Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut at the throbbing between his brows. He’ll have to check out what the local cops are doing about this case and probably destroy some security cam footage while he’s at it.

“So,” Jo’s voice starts on the other end of the line, tentative. “Those douchebags are probably at the hospital by now. How is Dean again?”

“Dean’ll be fine,” Sam brushes her off. He feels like this headache will never go away and he has a sudden urge to get off the phone and go back to his brother’s side.

Jo sounds taken aback at his dismissive tone.

“Umm, okay. That’s good to know, I guess.” She hesitates. “But Sam, I just wanted to say – I mean, I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything ‘cause Dean’s your brother and you probably know better than me but… tonight, I kinda got the impression that something’s seriously wrong with him. I mean, he was trying to hide it with all the charm and that attitude of his but it’s sorta clear that something’s troubling him. Like hurting him, you know?”

Sam takes a deep breath, turning around aimlessly and catching his reflection at the bathroom mirror in the process. He scoffs suddenly, pissed. Oh, he knows what’s troubling Dean.

“So, this probably isn’t a big discovery… but I think your brother might need help,” Jo goes on. Sam wants her to just shut up already.

“Anyway, I just thought it might help if you, you know, try to talk to him… or something,” she adds silently, uncomfortable. “Because he seems like he’s grieving, among other things, and that’s never a great state of mind. Especially if you’re alone.”

Sam doesn’t have any words for her. She is a complete stranger and yet, she couldn’t be more right.

“By the way, sorry for talking your head off,” she mutters finally, addressing the monologue their conversation has evolved into.

Sam snaps back to himself. He’s being rude, if nothing else. “No, no, it’s okay, Jo. Thanks for calling.” After all, there aren’t a whole lot of people who would call to check up on Dean. Not anymore. Well, there never were many to begin with.

“No problem,” she says, “Hey, can you tell Dean I said thanks?” She sounds a bit embarrassed.

Sam nods. “Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. I hope he gets well really soon. Good night, Sam.” She pauses. “Or good morning, whatever.”

He sees his lips twitch into a sad smile on the mirror. “Yeah, good night, Jo. Thanks again.”

He doesn’t say what for.

*

It takes Sam almost an hour to get himself together after the phone call. By the time he’s satisfied with the spotlessness of Dean’s jacket and shirt, his mind has inevitably focused on what Jo told him about his brother. How she was scared he was going to kill someone, with his bare hands.

It’s not much of a stretch, considering what their job description involves. Still, this was just a bar fight. Dean has bar fights twice a month. Yet, to Sam’s knowledge, none of them has even approached the edge of the sheer violence Jo described.

Maybe it was because of how messed up Dean is. He was pissed and hurt, not to mention more than a little drunk, so he wanted to take it out on a bunch of assholes. It’s a plausible theory. But it still doesn’t explain how exactly Dean hulked out and quickly got the upper hand when they were jumped. Maybe it’s just that Jo isn’t very good at evaluating stages of drunkenness and Dean wasn’t even that drunk in the first place.

Yeah, right. Dean wasn’t drunk after polishing more than a fifth of the cheapest Scotch he could find in the bunker, not to mention who-knows-how-many doubles he must have had at the bar. Hell, he was still drunk when he came home. How did he even drive, drunk and concussed like that? And how did he beat up those guys?

Along with the roofies, the chemicals his brother’s body has had to endure in the last 24 hours alone… Walking down the hallway, Sam wonders if he should just up and take Dean to see a real doctor. He can certainly deal with Dean’s anger later, if it means he can be completely sure nothing’s wrong with his brother – physically, at least.

Still, considering the roofies and the alcohol only helps strengthen the argument that Dean shouldn’t have been able to fight three people at once in the first place – let alone beat someone’s face into a bloody pulp.

Sam doesn’t know what to think as he quietly slips inside Dean’s room.

He pauses after a few steps, his eyes roaming over his brother’s sleeping form. Dean’s brows are pulled together in a light frown and he looks a bit flushed but other than that, he doesn’t look any different from how he did an hour ago, before Sam’s hasty departure.

Sam notices the bruises over the knuckles of Dean’s left hand where it rests on his stomach, his arm laying curled protectively over the icepacks placed on his fractured ribs. There’s dried blood and tissue all over his hand. Sam silently curses himself for not noticing it sooner. He was too wrapped up in checking for more serious brain injury and tending to Dean’s ribs to pay attention to smaller things.

If Dean’s left hand is this messed up, Sam isn’t sure he wants to see his right hand. Nonetheless, he tries to catch a glimpse of it as he approaches the bed silently. Dean’s arm is lying on the bed by his side; palm up so Sam can’t see the state of his knuckles.

He can see the Mark, though, glaring at him just like it was an hour ago. Standing red and furious, stark against the pale flesh of Dean’s forearm.

Sam hasn’t been able to find a whole lot of information about it, yet, but he’s sure it can’t be anything good. It’s Lucifer’s brand, intended for the Father of Murder himself. How could it be anything but evil? Still, Sam doesn’t know if the Mark has any hold over the bearer, if it’s enough to corrupt on its own or if Lucifer’s sweet serpent tongue is needed to push someone over the edge.

Dean hasn’t elaborated on the subject of the Mark, either. Not that they’re in the habit of talking much, these days, but Sam’s pretty sure his brother doesn’t actually know a whole lot to share with the class.

He scoffs and shakes his head as anger washes over the surface once again. Only Dean could be so stupid and reckless to go ahead on his own, find Cain and willingly accept the damn Mark on his arm – all of it on Crowley’s intel.

Shaking his head, Sam grabs the chair from its place next to the dresser and carries it over to the side of the bed quietly. He knows he needs to do a butt-load of research to get to the bottom of this thing but he can’t help but wonder about the way Dean has been lately.

The speed of his reaction to the crazy werewolf Sheriff in Wisconsin. Sure, Dean’s reflexes have always been really fast but Sam was still impressed with the split second knife-throwing. And when they saw the silver bullet necklace after, the eagerness he had to wipe out the entire pack – to kill Garth, even, until Sam called him out on it.

Only yesterday, how eager he was to kill Maritza… And now this? Being almost blind-drunk, then suddenly hulking out in a few seconds and almost beating a guy to death.

Sam thought this shoot-first-ask-questions-never mentality had something to do with Dean’s psychological state. He _had_ turned into a killing machine when Dad died, after all. It actually made sense for him to regress to his earliest conditioning under this much stress and pain.

With everything that’s happening with Abaddon and Metatron, Sam figured it made sense for Dean to turn into this psycho hunter, all ruthless and violent. Not to mention the added trouble of his outright rejection of his brother over what Dean did to him – _Gadreel,_ even the name is enough to make his blood start boiling. But Sam’s not so sure, anymore.

Maybe, this isn’t completely Dean. Sam stares at the ugly Mark without blinking. Maybe something is affecting Dean.

The thought is damn scary.

He blinks and frees himself from the grasp of horrible theories as a faint shiver runs through Dean’s body. Dean lets out a soft, strained sound as Sam gets up to tuck the blanket higher over his chest. He thinks he hears a vague ‘No’ spill from his brother’s lips as his hands brush against Dean’s bare chest. He feels somewhat warm to the touch.

“Dean?” he asks softly, to see if he’s waking up.

Dean frowns harder, his eyes moving frantically beneath his eyelids, and tosses his head to the other side with a slight whimper.

Is it a nightmare? Should Sam wake him up?

Touching Dean’s forehead lightly with the back of his hand, Sam decides to do a quick run to the kitchen for a glass of water and some Tylenol. Dean’s running a light fever for some reason and if it gets any worse, Sam might have to wake him up to give him the pills – blood-thinning effects be damned.

On his way back, he grabs a thermometer from the small first-aid chest on the hallway wall.

Dean is tossing and turning on the bed when he comes back.

Sam rushes to his side quickly, depositing everything on the bedside table. He freezes at the side of the bed for a few moments, transfixed by the sight of Dean’s thrashing.

“No…” Dean moans softly, his left hand falling down to his side. The icepacks around his ribs start to slide down without the support of his arm. Sam hears him mutter something under his breath before another heart-broken plea falls from his cracked lips.

“Sam…”

Sam’s gut twists with worry and his hand trembles above his brother’s shoulder. He wonders what exactly he can possibly be doing in Dean’s dream to make him so distressed. He’s about to shake him awake when all of a sudden, his thrashing ceases and he settles against the sheets with a final tremor.

“Dean?” Sam tries, unsure.

Dean doesn’t seem to hear him, though.

Letting out a big breath, Sam takes his hand back, deciding against waking Dean since he once again seems to have found some kind of rest in his sleep. Running a still slightly trembling hand through his hair, he picks up the thermometer with his other hand and sticks it in Dean’s armpit, taking care not to wake him in the process. It doesn't seem to matter, though. Thanks to all the alcohol, Dean is practically dead to the world.

The thermometer is an old one, a left over from the Men of Letters. It doesn’t give as precise a reading as a digital thermometer does, but Sam can see the end of the thin red line almost reaching 102°F.

Not too bad, he thinks. Maybe he won’t have to wake Dean up for some Tylenol, after all. A few washcloths soaked in cold water on his skin might be enough to cool him down.

Sam wants to make sure he’s deep asleep before taking his chances, though. He doesn’t want to wake Dean accidentally while trying to force his temperature down. So he settles back into his chair, feeling a little like a creep for watching his sleeping brother. Dean hates being watched while he’s asleep.

Sighing, Sam finds himself wishing they were in a motel room so he could pretend he wasn’t watching Dean while he was watching him. Here in the bunker, he doesn’t really have an excuse to be in his brother’s room when he’s asleep. But Dean’s hurt so even if he’s gonna be pissed when he wakes up to find Sam at his bedside, what the hell...

So Sam is staying and if he’s not gonna sleep – because he can’t – the least he can do is multi-purpose. He makes a quick trip to the library to retrieve the few books that he hopes contain some information about the Mark of Cain. This way, he can look less like a creep while keeping an eye on Dean, too.

But Sam hasn’t even been reading for ten minutes when Dean starts to get restless again.

“S-sam!” Dean croaks out from between clenched teeth and Sam drops his book immediately.

Dean’s body is tensed like a bow string. He looks like he’s fighting against some kind of invisible force, his limbs trembling ever so slightly.

Sam doesn’t know what to do. Is this a nightmare, some kind of night terror? Sleep paralysis? What is it? He vaguely remembers shaking someone awake may not always be the best approach.

Dean’s breathing sounds forced.

What is it that he’s seeing that's so terrifying, anyway? Sam can think of a thousand things, of course, but Dean has been having his fair share of nightmares over all these years – especially after Hell. But he’s never been so vocal about them before.

“Dean, hey, wake up,” Sam calls as his brother keeps trying to fight whatever he’s seeing in his sleep with his whole body. “Dean!”

He stretches a wary hand towards Dean’s shoulder, doesn’t want to startle him and make it worse. “Dean,” he calls again, louder this time, his hand hovering in the air uselessly. “Come on, man, wake up!”

And then Dean lets out a soft, almost inaudible whimper as his face crumples. Sam’s insides clench at the next pained gasp that escapes from his lips:

“Kevin!”

Dean’s living it all over again.

Sam has to stop this.

Actually, he needs to not be here, right now. But too bad for him, he is. So he has to stop it.

“Dean!” he tries again as he finally puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Come on, Dean, wake up. It’s just a nightmare. Dean!”                     

Dean’s eyes keep moving around under his eyelids as Sam tries to snap him out of it as gently as he can. But he’s too far under.

“Dean!” he shouts, finally giving him a good, solid shake.

Dean sucks in a loud breath and his eyes snap open at last. The look them is feral and close to panic as he jackknives into a sitting position.

“Get off!” he snarls at Sam and then lets out a strained cry, doubling over himself. He’s still trying to fight off Sam’s grip with one hand as he tries to breathe through the pain that must be throbbing at his side after that move.

“Hey-hey-hey, Dean! Dean, take it easy, man...” Sam stammers, drawing his hands back immediately. “Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy, c’mon Dean – just calm down!” His hands hover in the air uncertainly, ready to grab him again if necessary.

Dean pants for a few seconds, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Then he seems to remember he’s not alone and opens them, taking in the scene before him. Which must be Sam, basically, because he’s leaning in towards him now, and probably blocking the rest of vision.

Sam thinks he sees something close to fear flicker in Dean’s eyes before his brother starts backing up towards the headboard frantically, scrambling to get away from him.

“You – ”

“Dean – ”

Dean points a trembling finger at Sam, almost accusing. “You get the hell out!” he growls. His eyes are wildly darting around the room as his back hits the hardwood headboard.

Sam frowns. He knew Dean wasn’t exactly happy with him at the moment but still, he wasn’t expecting such outright hostility.

“Dean, look...” he starts, shaking his head and trying to decide how to approach this.

The coin doesn’t drop until he notices Dean sneak a nervous glance at his bedside table, as if trying to assess whether he can grab whatever’s in the drawer in time.

He gets it, then.

Sighing, he reaches over to slide open the drawer, keeping his eyes on his brother’s freaked-out expression all the time. Dean’s face hardens once he realizes Sam’s intention and his right hand shoots out to stop him.

“Don’t – ” he spits out but Sam cuts him off softly, taking hold of his wrist. Dean’s too shook-up and disoriented to put up much of a struggle.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

He grabs the cold metal with his free hand and pulls it out of the drawer, holding it out in front of his face as he locks his gaze with his brother’s.

It’s an angel blade.

He can feel the slight tremor that runs through Dean at the knowledge of losing his only weapon against him.

But the thing is, he doesn’t need a weapon.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, releasing Dean’s wrist slowly, cautiously.

“It’s me.”

Then he slides the tip of the blade over his forearm with a slight grimace he can’t hold back. “See?” he asks, an uneasy smile jerking at one side of his lips as he shows Dean the blood pooling around the wound and the complete lack of angelic white glow. “It’s me.”

Dean's eyes do a hasty back and forth between his bleeding arm and his face. After a moment, the tension in his body seems to ease up a notch and he finally blinks back huge eyes at Sam.

"Sam..?" he says, still a bit unsure.

Sam tries to give him a smile. He hopes the resulting expression on his face is at least reassuring.

"Yeah, Dean. It's me."

Dean holds his gaze for a few moments; then casts his eyes downwards, blinking rapidly. He’s taking deep breaths – wincing slightly with each one – as he tries to make sense of what just happened. Sam figures he must be a little too groggy for that just yet so he tries to explain.

“It was just a dream, man, a nightmare.” He tries to go for a soothing tone but it doesn’t really sound right to him.

Dean shakes his head in slow-motion, stealing a flickering glance at Sam’s face and then bowing his head down even further. He looks… _ashamed_ , for lack of a better word.

Sam hears him mutter under his breath quietly.

“Wish it were.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. Besides, he’s fairly certain Dean wouldn’t take it very well if he actually acknowledged what he’s heard.

So he just sits there with that frickin’ vice around his chest and stares at the top of his brother’s head, his bleeding arm and the angel blade long forgotten. He snaps out of it only when he realizes Dean’s breathing has started sounding strained once again.

“Dean, you need to lie back down,” he states needlessly, his hands automatically reaching for his brother.

But for an utterly horrifying second, Dean seems to shy away from his touch. Then he quickly covers up his involuntary reaction with the excuse of scooting towards the edge of the bed. “Bathroom,” he grunts; all faux nonchalance.

Sam blinks a few times, trying to shake the sudden, cold feeling off of his shoulders. Then he reaches out towards his brother once again, to help him get out of bed this time. But Dean doesn’t want his help.

“I can get off the bed fine, Sam,” he snaps sharply, holding his right hand out in a clear sign that says ‘Back off!’

Sam sighs and sits back in his chair, scooting it backwards so that Dean can have enough room to stand up beside the bed. So _this_ is how it is, then. Sober, or at least sober enough not to slur his words too much, Dean doesn’t want Sam to even touch him. He’s not really surprised.

So he bites his lip and crosses his arms to keep them to himself as he watches the achingly slow course of Dean getting himself out of bed. Sam’s gotta give it to him; Dean is stoic if nothing else. Not even a single sound of pain escapes him as he makes his way out of bed. The only clue to the amount of pain he’s in is his slow, careful movements and his erratic breathing.

Sam watches him the entire time and almost jumps up from his seat to steady him as he sways on his feet for a second. But Dean finds his balance quickly, shuffling towards the door without even looking in Sam’s direction once.

Sam lets out another deep sigh, resigned, as his gaze trails after his brother’s retreating back. He runs both hands through his hair and it takes him considerable amount of self-control not to yank it all out.

How are they supposed to fix this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel like I owe you guys an explanation as to why exactly I disappeared for more than a month. I don't know if I can explain it properly here, but I guess all you need to know is I'm from Turkey and things haven't been so great over here for months (who am I kidding, years). 
> 
> A couple days after I posted the previous chapter, a 14-year-old boy, who had been in a coma for 269 days, died. He was out on his way to buy bread last June when he was hit on the head by a tear-cas cannister fired by the Turkish police. For months, we had waited for him to wake up. But he couldn't. The tragedy of his death, at a such a young age, wounded millions of people all over the country - including me. So I couldn't really write about fictional hurt and anger when there was so much real hurt and anger I had to deal with.
> 
> Anyway, once I recovered after a few weeks, there was so much work and thesis stuff to catch up with that I didn't have the time or the peace of mind to do this story justice.
> 
> Sorry if you really didn't wanna know about any of this. I don't know what to say, I hope you guys liked this chapter. So, please tell me what you think!
> 
> P.S. No worries, I won't pull that disappearing crap again.


	7. Just as sure as you live, something's gotta give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And dammit, Sam doesn’t get to help him off the bed or steady him on his feet. He doesn’t get to look hurt or shocked. He wanted it this way. He was the one who wanted nothing to do with Dean. And he was right to want that. He’ll never forgive Dean for this.
> 
> That’s good. Dean doesn’t want forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it. He never will. So he tells himself he doesn’t need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for the lovely comments and for not giving up on me. Just one more chapter to go after this one. 
> 
> The title is from Something's Gotta Give.

**Chapter 7 - Just as sure as you live, something's gotta give**

Dean is so tired. He just wants this to end.

But that’s the thing about Hell – it doesn’t end. There’s no escape from the pain or the blood or the screaming. Or _him_. Especially him. He seems forever fascinated with Dean and no matter what Dean tries, he can’t get him to lose interest.

On one hand, that’s a good thing. If he’s torturing Dean, he’s not torturing anyone else. Dean can take it. On the other hand, Dean is this close to giving in. Every time he’s whole again, he opens his eyes to another day – or night, he can never tell – wondering if this is the day he finally says yes.

Alastair certainly thinks so. He never loses hope or enthusiasm as he slices and dices, carving deep into Dean’s soul.

Today, he helpfully reminded Dean that it’s his 10950th day. He said he really doesn’t want to put down his razor but he’s kind of curious to watch what an animal like Dean is capable of. The worst part is probably the way he talks about it – about what Dean can do. He describes each and every gory detail as he cuts pieces of Dean’s skin and peels meat off of his bones.

Dean gave up trying to talk back at him a while ago. He dreams instead. He can still dream if Alastair’s not being exceptionally creative – like right now. Actually, Alastair seems to be going easy on him for a few days now. Instead, he’s more focused on this weird statue he’s been building with the pieces of Dean. Meat and bone and cartilage, slices of skin here and there.

It certainly looks much more grotesque than anything Dean’s ever seen. Even in his thirty years in here so far, he’s never once laid eyes on such a monstrosity. And that’s saying something.

The scream tears up his throat beyond repair, but Dean can’t help it as Alastair cuts another piece of flesh from his chest, humming some friggin’ classic under his breath all the while: _Something_ _’_ _s gotta give. Something_ _’_ _s gotta give. Something_ _’_ _s gotta give_.

Panting through the scorching pain, Dean watches the demon move back to work on his statue. If this wasn’t Hell, he would have passed out within the first thirty minutes – from blood loss or the pain alone. But of course he has to be awake and aware for all of it.

So he watches Alastair carefully place (and maybe sew up?) the pieces of meat and skin on his handiwork. When he’s done, Alastair takes a couple steps back and frowns at his hideous creation, tsk-tsking critically.

Dean scoffs using whatever’s left of his throat and mouth. “Not exactly great’r than th’sum of its parts, huh?” he croaks.

Alastair throws a glance at him over his shoulder, an unpleasant smile curling around his thin lips. “Oh Dean, of course it’s greater than the sum of its parts. This is art,” he sneers, proud.

But Dean is in no mood to appreciate creepy ‘art’ made up of his own flesh and bone. So he closes his eyes and tries to get back to his dream.

Sam’s smiling at him from the passenger seat. Dean says something. Sam laughs – a nice, big laugh complete with a backwards head toss and everything. The steering wheel is solid in Dean’s hands and baby’s humming and purring all around him. He floors it and Sam’s laughter melds into the roar of the engine. It’s a good day –

“Come now, Dean. You don’t wanna take a look at my masterpiece?”

Alastair sounds amused but his voice still has that edge of cruelty it always does. Dean doesn’t want to know why he wants him to look. He doesn’t want any part of whatever kind of new torture this is. But it’s too late. The dream has already shattered.

He wishes he could be deader than dead so that he’ll go somewhere else or better yet, he’ll simply cease to exist. He knows that won’t happen, though. He’ll be Hell’s bitch for eternity, that’s pretty much a given. He thinks he could maybe, probably, escape if someone else was stupid enough to open another Devil’s Gate. But the chances are slim so he better play along to Alastair’s tune. He might leave him be for a few moments when he’s done.

“Thought _I_ was s’pposed t’be your mast’piece?” He can actually feel torn flesh move around in his throat as his voice screeches against it like burning tires on asphalt.

Alastair chuckles knowingly. “Not yet,” he whispers, “But you will be.”

He pries open Dean’s bloody eyelids with one hand, gesturing towards his work with the other holding the scalpel. “You like?” he murmurs.

Dean chokes on the heavy, humid air he doesn’t actually need. Breathing is a habit he can’t quit, no matter how much it hurts to take air inside his ruined lungs.

So he chokes wordlessly.

It’s Sam.

“No…” he mutters, trying to turn his head to the side so he won’t see.

But Alastair doesn’t let him. “What’s the matter, Dean?” he asks, holding his head in place and dragging the scalpel over his cheek. Dean can’t even feel the blood it draws out anymore. But Alastair doesn’t notice his lack of reaction to the blade. “Thought you would’ve missed little brother by now. Well, here he is! Aren’t you even gonna say hello?”

Dean can’t look the other way, he can’t close his eyes. He has no choice but to stare at this deformed, demented figure of his little brother. A freaky, life-size Frankenstein doll in the middle of all the carnage and the heat. Sam – _no, not Sam, not him_ – stares back at him with lifeless eyes. It’s so wrong.

Alastair has built up this perfect, twisted likeness of him and even looking at it burns Dean deep inside where no demon, not even Alastair, has been able to touch until now.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Alastair tut-tuts. “And here I thought you would appreciate my gift… Your daddy sure did when I gave him his own on our thirty-year anniversary.”

Dean doesn’t say anything else so the demon finally lets go of his head. Dean shuts his eyes tight. It’s the only thing he can do.

Alastair keeps talking as he moves back towards his creation. “You know, the way I see it, he _is_ your brother. I mean, he is your flesh and blood – literally.”

“Dean?”

His voice… If Dean still had his stomach, he would get sick.

“See?” Alastair chuckles and Dean can’t help opening his eyes once again.

Sam is awake – no, that damn _thing_ is somehow awake. And he just called out to him. He – it – screams as Alastair starts carving. And it’s Sammy’s voice. God help him, he doesn’t know how or why, but it’s Sammy’s voice.

“No…”

Dean’s eyes fall shut. He didn’t know he still had tears left. “Stop it,” he mutters under his breath.

It’s the first time he’s said it in thirty years.

Alastair keeps going merrily.

Dean’s too weak to fight the chains. A few hours earlier, he could maybe rattle them a little but not right now. So he just sags like a rag-doll on the rack and keeps muttering the two words over and over again like a mantra. “Stop it, stop it, stop it…”

And that’s how they reach this new level of torture.

Alastair gets bored sometimes, moves back to Dean. But he never wastes the flesh, the skin or the bone anymore. Dean is spare parts for Sam. ‘Cause he’s never magically whole again like Dean. No, Alastair repairs him, puts him back together every time with patience, talking about art and craftsmanship the whole time. Then he starts all over again. Dean isn’t sure how long it’s been the first time he saw Alastair carve into his brother’s flesh.

One day or maybe night, he finally screams it. “Stop it!”

He can still hear the sizzle of Sam’s flesh, smell the burning meat. Sam is whimpering.

“I’ll do it,” he breaks. “I’ll do it. Just stop.”

The whimpering stops. Finally. Sam is no more.

Then Dean’s holding Alastair’s favorite razor in his hand and staring at her trembling form tied up on the rack.

“Dean, please,” she begs through the tears as he comes closer. “Don’t. Please.”

She’s beautiful. Dean wants to tear her apart bit by bit.

For everything she’s done. For having been a cruel, heartless bitch. But maybe most of all, for still having tears left to weep after spending decades in here. Dean sure doesn’t have any tears left. He spilt the last ones over his brother’s desperate pleas to Alastair. No, the only thing left in him is the endless agony and the grief. And of course the naked, blinding rage and hate that comes with that package, too.

He puts a hand on one side of her pretty head, fingers sliding into her thick hair. She starts shaking with violent sobs. “Shhh,” he shushes her softly, leaning in close. “It’s okay Bela. I got you, now. I’monna take care of you.”

She screams as he starts slicing.

Then Dean hears him.

“– Well, then I win.”

Dean whips around, suddenly cold – it’s never cold in Hell.

He’s standing right there in the middle of the room. How did he…?

“What do you say, Sam? A fiddle of gold against your soul says I'm better than you.”

That bastard. 

Dean risks a glance sideways. Sam is right there. He’s so desperate.

“So he knows. Doesn't change anything.”

Dean shakes his head in denial. “No... Sam – ”

“We don't have any other choice.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

The white light is hot and cold and blinding.

When Dean can see again, he’s staring at Sam’s broad back. His shoulders are rising and falling rapidly. He’s readying himself, Dean thinks. His little brother is about to walk into a hole in the wall. Into the cage.

But Sam doesn’t walk into the hole. Instead, he turns around and smiles at Dean. It’s a smile Dean doesn’t recognize. It’s eerie. Dean knows all of Sam’s smiles.

“I was just messing with you. Sammy's long gone.”

He breaks.

Dean looks at his brother and tries not to see Lucifer.

“No…” he begs silently, chills running down his spine. This can’t be happening.

“I told you… this would always happen in Detroit.”

Dean listens to his brother and tries not to hear Lucifer.

And then he’s all alone again. Holding his head in his hands and trying to keep the tears from falling. He turns around and lodges his blade deep into her gut, unleashing all that pain and rage and loss on her.

Bela takes it all and screams in beautiful, guttural notes.

And then suddenly, Dean is grabbed from behind and whipped around violently. It’s him again.

“Sammy?” he asks, unsure. “Are you in there?”

He sneers as he draws his fist back. “Oh, he’s in here, all right.”

He punches Dean over and over again as he rants. “And he’s gonna feel the snap of your bones.”

Dean’s on the ground. He’ll take it all. But he won’t leave his brother alone here with him.

“Every single one,” he hisses from between clenched teeth as he hauls Dean to his feet. “We’re gonna take our time.”

Dean is trying to get his bloody, broken mouth to work to tell Sam that he won’t leave him when he’s airborne all of a sudden.

He hits the wall hard. Then he can’t move. Sam is right there in front of him.

“Sam?” Dean squeezes through the pain, desperate.

“There is no more Sam.”

It’s the same nightmare all over again. Dean looks at his brother and tries not to see an angel. Dean listens to his brother and tries not to hear an angel. What’s even worse is that this time it’s all his own damn fault. He did this to Sam. And now Sammy’s lost… and he doesn’t even know who this bastard is or what he wants. And Kevin is…

Dean strains against the wall, fighting against a power he knows he can never beat. He can’t even breathe right. But he has to try.

The goddamn thing keeps on talking in that cold, distant way.

“But I played him convincingly, I thought.”

Dean gasps, trying desperately to take in enough air to fight the painful hold over his body. His chest fucking burns and the words keep echoing inside his head as he fights to speak. _There is no more Sam – no more Sam – no more Sam – played him convincingly – no more Sam – played him – Sam._

And then he falls and falls and falls. When he lands, his chest is still tight and hurting. On the floor, only a few feet in front of him, lies Kevin.

Dean can hear the sizzle of his flesh, smell the burning meat. Kevin isn’t whimpering, though. Dean knows why.

“Kevin!” he still calls, although he expects no answer.

Kevin lies on the floor, motionless, his burnt out eyes sizzling. He doesn’t answer.

“Kevin…”

_“I always trust you and I always end up screwed.”_

The ground starts shaking, violent vibrations moving through Dean’s body. He thinks he can hear something – someone calling out to him.

“Dean!”

Dean opens his eyes. His chest is still hurting and his body is still shaking. He realizes someone’s hands are on him and he has to get away.

He thrashes and swings mindlessly, finding his voice and yelling “Get off!” as he sits up.

Then the pain washes everything out until even the backs of his eyelids are white hot. He tries to breathe through it but the throbbing feels like it’s here to stay. He thinks he can hear his name being called again but he can’t be sure with the blood pumping through his ears.

When he opens his eyes, he’s all Dean can see.

Dean doesn’t really understand; he thought he’d left. But here he is, wearing his brother’s body and playing him once again. He’s too close, Dean has to –

He scoots back on the floor – the bed? “You,” Dean spits out as his head spins, still trying to make sense of it all. But he’s sure of one thing and that’s the fact that this son of a bitch has to leave his brother alone. “You get the hell out!”

He frowns at him, puzzled, and suddenly he’s Sam. Damn, that son of a bitch’s good!

Dean tries to take in his surroundings as he keeps backing away from him. His head is still spinning, his lower chest and abdomen are on fire and he doesn’t know what the hell is going on. His back hits the headboard as he finally concludes that he’s in his room, on his bed.

The bastard is trying to talk to him still – as if Dean’s got anything to listen to after everything. He knows he left an angel blade in the top drawer, if only he could reach –

But he can’t. He watches in horror as the angel reaches towards the bedside table and then snaps back to himself, finally lunging halfway forward to try to stop him with a hand. But his reach is fucked to hell in this condition and the bastard holds him off with barely any effort at all. “Don’t – ”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

And God help him, his voice is soft and his tone is reassuring. It’s worse than Hell and it’s even worse than Lucifer. This bastard can play Sam so well it’s almost Oscar-worthy.

And Dean wants to believe.

He can do nothing but watch helplessly as the angel draws the blade slowly and holds it out in front of him, raising his eyes to stare into Dean’s.

Dean can’t help the shiver that runs through him at the sight. He’s hurt, his vision is fucked and something is really pretty wrong with his ribs. On top of all of that, now he has no weapon against this psycho murderer who’s inhabiting his brother’s body against his will. Not to mention, with Dean’s much needed help.

Even if he had the blade, Dean knows he couldn’t possibly stab Sam. But the threat would still be there and it might have helped.

“It’s okay,” the bastard says again, in a low voice as if not to startle Dean.

Then he does the unexpected: he releases Dean’s wrist.

“It’s me.”

There’s real conviction in his voice. But he already fooled Dean once. No, not falling for that again.

But then he does the unexpected, again: he cuts himself.

There’s blood pooling around the wound but no white glow and no power seeping out either.

“See?” he asks, as he thrusts his bleeding arm towards Dean slightly. His lips are twitching at one side with something close to a smile and all of a sudden, he’s Sam. “It’s me.”

Dean looks at the not-quite smile on that face and he looks at the dark red blood trickling down his arm. He does a quick back and forth and then one more, just to be sure.

He ends up feeling completely dizzy after so much rapid eye movement. But it doesn’t matter. It’s Sam.

“Sam…?” he asks so that he’ll answer, and he can hear his brother. Finally.

“Yeah, Dean. It’s me.”

Dean looks at his brother and sees his brother. Finally.

Sam holds his gaze with sincerity until Dean ducks his head in order to keep himself together. He’s not gonna have some kind of a friggin’ breakdown. So he shoves aside the relief flowing through him and tries to put the pieces together. Taking a deep breath to calm the fuck down, he can’t help but wince at the sharp pain at his side.

He’s pretty beat up. Busted ribs, maybe? He’s dizzy, his head hurts. But Sam is Sam again. And Dean’s in his room, on his bed. Slowly but surely, it’s all coming back to him: Kevin. Cas. Crowley. Hunting down that evil son of a bitch. Gadreel. Getting Sam back. Sam.

_“Go. I'm not gonna stop you.”_

_“I can’t trust you – ”_

_“ – you wanna be brothers…”_

_“You didn’t save me for me.”_

_“ – You can't stand the thought of being alone.”_

_“No, Dean. I wouldn’t.”_

Dean shuts his eyes tight for a second. He actually liked it better when he couldn’t remember, couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“It was just a dream, man, a nightmare.”

Sam’s voice cuts through his trail of thought like a blunt blade. He sounds awkward, like maybe he wants to comfort but isn’t really sure how.

Dean can’t resist peeking at Sam to check if he can still see it all on his face. The betrayal, the disappointment, the anger and the resentment. Sam just looks sad though, so sad… and maybe a bit worried. There might even be a little guilt in there somewhere.

“Wish it were,” Dean mutters to himself, shaking his head in regret, denial or shame – he doesn’t know which. He knows one thing though: Sam’s got nothing to feel guilty about. He did nothing wrong. He didn’t have the choice to do anything wrong in the first place. No, Dean made all the choices and it blew up in their faces in the end. And that poor little kid, he was the one who drew the shortest straw.

Dean is thankful for Sam’s silence as he sits there on the bed with his head bowed, trying to breathe. He didn’t mean to say that last bit out loud. He didn’t want Sam to hear. Because Sam reacts to stuff like that. He tries to comfort, to reason, to talk or just do something. But Dean can’t take that right now. Not to mention he doesn’t deserve it, not one bit. Granted, Sam seems too pissed to even act like himself these days, so that works out nicely for both of them.

So Dean sits on his bed silently. Sam doesn’t say anything.

Though the longer Sam stays quiet, the worse it gets. Dean actually thought he wanted this but apparently he doesn’t. He wants his brother to say something, anything. Yell or cry or tear him yet another new one but something. Just not leave him alone with his own mind. Not when he’s right there in front of him.

He tries to breathe through the tight fist around his chest, the insistent throbbing at his ribs no longer registering. The pressure on top of his chest feels much more urgent, painful, relentless.

Sam doesn’t say anything.

The harder Dean tries to draw air into his lungs, the worse it gets.

Sam doesn’t care.

Dean curls his left arm close to his ribs and rocks forward slightly. The physical pain isn’t much of an issue; protecting a wounded body part is just an instinct.

What is Sam doing here then?

Dean doesn’t raise his eyes; he can’t. He vaguely recalls Sam half-carrying him here. Asking him stupid questions and shining that blinding light in his eyes. He can feel the now lukewarm icepacks against his leg.

Sam took care of him.

Sam’s hands on his face. He says _“I would, Dean.”_ He would what?

He’s startled out of the memories by his brother’s voice.

“Dean, you need to lie back down.”

He doesn’t mean to flinch away when Sam reaches for him. But he can’t help it; it’s embarrassing. Not like Sam would hit him. Well, maybe he would, but certainly not when Dean was already feeling like roadkill. And he would deserve it, too. Sam really should hit him.

But the look in Sam’s eyes is nothing like that. It’s not pissed or fuming. Sam looks shocked, even horrified and yes, a bit hurt.

He can’t get away from Sam fast enough after that.

And dammit, Sam doesn’t get to help him off the bed or steady him on his feet. He doesn’t get to look hurt or shocked. _He_ wanted it this way. He was the one who wanted nothing to do with Dean. And he was right to want that. He’ll never forgive Dean for this.

That’s good. Dean doesn’t want forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it. He never will. So he tells himself he doesn’t need it.

But Dean needs something, still. Some kind of constant to hold onto if he’s gonna give Sam what he wants: Work, just work. All business-like. Nothing else to complicate things and give Dean the opportunity to fuck up Sam’s life even worse than he already has.

He can feel Sam’s eyes like a solid weight on his back as he makes his slow, painful way out of the room. It’s better this way.

_“I would beg you to stop.”_

*

Sam is still there when Dean gets back. He was hoping he’d be gone by now - he actually made sure to hang out in the bathroom an additional ten minutes for good measure. But no, Sam is sitting in that same chair, messing with something in his hands.

It’s an ace bandage.

Sam starts to get up when he sees Dean making his way into the room in all his pathetic glory.

“Hey,” he calls in greeting and doesn’t say anything else. He looks like he’s about to say something a couple times there, but he just shuts his mouth instead. Awkward.

Dean tilts his chin slightly in response to the greeting. It should be enough.

Sam clears his throat. “We should, uhh, we should wrap those ribs,” he says finally.

Dean stops a couple feet from his bed. “Ribs are fine.”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. He looks so tired. “They’re anything but fine, Dean. I can see how you hold yourself. Bandaging them will help, you know that.” He almost sounds like he’s pleading.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dean states casually.

Sam looks at him for a long moment. “I know,” he starts slowly, “But you’ll be more comfort – ”

“Look, Sam, you don’t have to play nurse,” Dean cuts him off. “Why do you even bother?”

Sam looks puzzled. “What?” he huffs. “What are you – ”

“I get it, okay? I got it in Wisconsin and I got it loud and clear only a few hours ago. It’s okay, just – just go to bed.” Dean can’t hold Sam’s gaze any longer so he looks down at his feet and starts towards his bed again, hoping Sam will take the out and leave him alone finally.

But his brother is stubborn if nothing else.

“If I wanted to go to bed, I would have, Dean,” he says, gesturing with the hand holding the ace bandage, voice high-pitched in sudden irritation. “But you’re injured and I wanna help – ”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have t – ”

“I never said I had to,” Sam cuts him off, now sounding angry for real. “I said I wanted to. You never listen, do you?”

He’s doing that again, blurring the lines he himself drew only a few hours ago. And it’s so confusing; Dean doesn’t know how to walk a line he can’t even see. “What...?”

“Just stop being an asshole and let me help, okay?”

The headache was already there in the background ever since he woke up but his head has started throbbing for real, now. Dean closes his eyes for a moment and presses a loose fist against one eyebrow. He just doesn’t have the energy to argue with Sam anymore.

Before wrapping the bandage tight around his ribs, Sam makes him take at least five painful, deep breaths to clear his lungs. The last one results in him coughing violently, which is a unique experience with broken ribs.

“Hey, by the way,” Sam starts, as if he’s only just remembered something, “Jo called earlier. She was worried about you. I told her you’d be okay.”

Dean is confused for a moment as he mutters “Jo?”

Sam sighs and looks up at Dean from where he’s carefully working with the bandage. “Yeah, the girl you met at the bar tonight? She uhh, she wanted me to tell you she said thanks. I guess she felt responsible for – well, all of this.”

“Huh…” Dean mutters slowly. “Guess some people still appreciate the effort…”

He’s pretty much asleep on his feet at this point. So he realizes what he just said with a couple seconds’ delay when Sam’s hands suddenly freeze on his bandaged torso.

Sam is staring up at him, his eyes practically dripping venom. “Seriously?” he hisses, his jaw clenched. A muscle twitches at one side of his face.

Dean lets out a low groan and it hurts his insides almost as much as seeing the seething anger on his brother’s face.

“Look, Sam,” he begins hastily, “I didn’t – I didn’t mean it like – I don’t wanna start anything again, okay?”

This time he holds Sam’s gaze so that he can see the truth in Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t know if the gesture has the desired effect, though, ‘cause Sam blinks and looks away after a moment, huffing out a sharp breath.

“Hey, I get it,” Dean says, not knowing what else to say or do.

Sam frowns at him hard. There’s something more than just anger in his eyes, now. “Do you?” he asks sharply as he tugs at the end of the bandage and fastens it in place with two clips.

As his brother rises to his full height, Dean sees it all in his face. The betrayal, the disappointment, the anger and the resentment. Maybe even a little fear.

“Do you, really?” Sam asks again, his voice dropping a pitch as he tries to control himself.

Dean doesn’t know what to do so he just stands there and takes it all in. Sam is suffering in front of him and Dean can’t do anything but hate himself even more in the face of that much pain.

Sam narrows his eyes and takes a step back, shaking his head slightly. “If you ‘get it’,” he says in such a low voice it’s almost a whisper. “Why would you say you’d do it again? Huh?”

Dean opens his mouth to say something, anything. But no words come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been some time since I last updated (again). Sorry to keep you waiting but I'm trying my best, guys. Thanks for the comments and kudos and everything, they really help keep me motivated... Especially after the devastation of that finale, I needed some motivation to get back to this story. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked this chapter. I'd be glad if you let me know what you think about this one =)


	8. You don't wanna hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d been able to reach Dean back then. In that last, crucial moment, his brother had come around. Because he always did. Sam remembers the conviction he held that day; the unshakable belief that Dean would make the right call, no matter what. He misses that feeling. And he misses seeing that old, frayed leather stretched across Dean’s shoulders. But Dean took it off and put it aside for a reason that second time.
> 
> Sam hasn’t seen his brother wear it since the day he jumped into the cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Remember me? No? I thought so...
> 
> The chapter title is from the Track and Field cover of Running Up That Hill (originally by Kate Bush).

**Chapter 8 - You don't wanna hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies.**

Sam wants to stay; stay and explain and maybe even listen. He really does. But the problem is that he can’t. He just can’t. Besides, every single time he’s tried to talk to Dean so far, he ended up making things even worse. So maybe it’s for the best that he leaves.

It’s still too fresh is what it is. Everything too recent, too close, too real. He’s got it all buried deep inside and he hasn’t really had any time to deal with any of it yet.

That’s why he runs.

No, actually, that’s not why he runs. He runs because that’s what he does, what he always does. He doesn’t deal, he just up and leaves. He’s good at that. And now, he’s only trying to rationalize what he did a few minutes ago. ‘Cause that’s what he always does. That’s his style.

He’s standing by the kitchen counter, squeezing the life out of a wet dishtowel uselessly as his mind runs a mile a minute.

He looked down at Dean and spit words like venom before storming out of the room.

Dean looked so lost, so small.

And that is just wrong. Dean is his big brother. He should never, ever look like that.

Dean takes up space, so much space. He enters a room and even the air adjusts itself around him to accommodate that huge aura of his. He vibrates with something inexplicable that pulls everyone around him to his periphery – like freakin’ moths to a flame. Dean is loud and fun and he always has something to say.

Maybe not anymore, though. Not for a long time. Too long.

Well, Dean might not always say the right thing but he would always say _something_. He didn’t say anything just a couple minutes ago, though. Maybe he couldn’t, Sam doesn’t know.

Sam asked him why – _why?_ – and Dean’s lips did that twitchy-trembly thing they sometimes do when he’s excited or nervous. Sam doesn’t know how much time passed after that. All he knows is that he kept staring down at his brother and no words came out. Not this time.

So Sam left.

He left Dean alone in his room, perched at the edge of his bed with that terrible expression on his face. He left Dean alone with his concussion, his broken ribs and his bruised knuckles. And his Mark. He left Dean alone with God knows what swimming around in his head. Alone with visions of Kevin’s eyes burning out of his skull and alone in the tight grip of those awful nightmares filled with hopeless pleas of _Sam_.

So Sam left – for the second time tonight, too. ‘Cause that’s who he is.

How long will it take for Dean to fall asleep again? How long till he’s whimpering softly – _Sam_ – in the quiet cold of the room? How long till he’s crying over Kevin’s dead body?

Sam leans his forehead on the metal shelf and tries to breathe. In and out. In… then out.

He can’t fix this. They can’t –

*

Dean wanted to say something. He tried to say something but there were no words to utter in the presence of such anger and hurt radiating off of his brother. So after a while, he stopped trying to talk altogether.

He soaked it all up, let Sam’s hurt and betrayal wash over him and just took it.

_“Why would you say you’d do it again?”_

So Dean didn’t say anything.

And Sam left.

And suddenly, it was thirty years ago. The fire, the heat… and Dad.

_“Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!”_

Sam is a twitching, restless bundle in his arms.

_“It’s okay, Sammy.”_

Dean remembers everything after. He let Sam believe once that he didn’t recall much of that night. But he does: that night and many more after. He remembers Dad trying to explain it to him. He knows he didn’t speak another word for months after that last reassurance to little Baby Sammy. He remembers Dad pleading with him, trying desperately to get him to talk. Dean didn’t feel like it, though. There was nothing to say. He thought maybe he would talk if Mom could hear him. She always listened to him.

So Sammy kept cooing and crying and yammering senseless baby talk but Dean kept silent. Then one day, Dad had scooped him up in his arms and took him across the room to watch Sammy roll around in his crib. His little brother flailing his arms and legs and smiling up at both of them, yammering on and on about something Dean couldn’t understand.

“He’s gonna have to learn how to talk soon,” Dad had said softly. “But Dean, Sammy needs his big brother to teach him how, you know? Think you can do that, buddy?”

Dean remembers looking down at that chubby, smiling face with those tiny, drool-covered lips. He remembers the hopeful look in Dad’s eyes. And then he remembers nodding slowly, wiggling in Dad’s arms to be put down on the floor. Then he’d leant in close towards Sammy and started talking in a soft murmur. “Hey Sammy,” he’d said, pushing soft baby hair away from his brother’s forehead. His throat had hurt a little but he’d kept going. “I’ll show you how to talk.”

Dean still remembers the fat tears in Dad’s eyes and the broken smile on his lips. He remembers Dad falling to his knees beside the crib and holding him almost too tight, whispering silent 'thank you's and stretching a gentle hand to stroke over Sammy’s head.

But the sound that still echoes inside his head thirty years later is the excited squeal Sammy had let out right after he’d heard his big brother talking to him.

Ten days later, Sam had said his first words in a delicate but clear tone: “Dee-Dee”.

Dean blinks rapidly as he comes back to the present. The room is a blurry mess and his stomach is uncomfortably warm. He’s gonna be sick. He never meant to – he never meant for any of this to happen. He never meant for Sammy to hurt so bad. How could he…? He only wanted to save his little brother, just like he always did. He only wanted to keep him safe.

Dean shuts his eyes tight and feels the damn tears leaving wet tracks all over his cheeks.

He would talk if Sam could hear him.

Instead, he slowly curls down on the bed on his good side, the Mark humming softly where it ends up half-trapped underneath his body. But it isn’t the static buzz of the Mark that stays with him as his body finally throws in the towel.

It’s the echoes of baby laughter and a triumphant squeal:

_“Dee-Dee!”_

*

Sam finds it in the Impala’s trunk three days later. It’s in a cardboard box marked to one “ROBERT SINGER”. He feels his lips twitch at the reminder of the man, wistful. He stares at the box for a few moments, forgetting all about the grocery bags he was supposed to deposit in the trunk. He realizes Dean’s clear, block letters are still a surprise to him – even after all these years he’s spent reading them. It’s just that Sam’s always figured Dean should have worse hand-writing for some reason, that’s all.

It’s not the first time Sam has seen this particular box. It usually doesn’t catch much attention somehow. Maybe Dean covers it up with something, Sam can’t be sure.

He knows what’s in it. A worn, soft brown leather jacket – used to be Dean’s favorite, probably because it belonged to Dad at one point.

Sam wonders if Dean ever misses wearing it. He’d taken it off and put it in this box for a reason that first time. He was gonna say 'yes', he was gonna kill himself. It must have seemed appropriate at the time to send it to Bobby.

Sam remembers standing in that lonely motel room after Cas zapped Dean to Bobby’s. He’d carried the box outside to the Impala along with the few other stuff he’d found in the room. Only after realizing he didn’t have Dean’s keys, he’d decided to open it. He knew his brother; he knew Dean would put his Baby’s keys inside. He also knew Dean wouldn’t want Sam messing around with whatever was inside that box because he’d truly meant to be dead for all intents and purposes when that happened. But Sam couldn’t possibly leave the car there so he’d opened it.

And there the keys had been, lying comfortably on the soft leather next to Dean’s beloved M1911A1. His brother’s favorite jacket, his favorite pistol and his Baby’s keys all in one place along with a stupid, stupid letter Sam wishes to this day that he’d never laid eyes upon.

He’d been able to reach Dean back then. In that last, crucial moment, his brother had come around. Because he always did. Sam remembers the conviction he held that day; the unshakable belief that Dean would make the right call, no matter what. He misses that feeling. And he misses seeing that old, frayed leather stretched across Dean’s shoulders. But Dean took it off and put it aside for a reason that second time.

Sam hasn’t seen his brother wear it since the day he jumped into the cage.

He doesn’t realize he’s reaching for the box until his hands are fumbling to open it. There’s no pistol, no keys, no damn farewell letter this time. Only the soft brown leather rolled carefully to fit inside. It’s not the first time Sam’s opened this box. It’s not the second, either. He knows what he’s looking for.

His fingers find their own way around the worn creases of the jacket, finally closing over their item of interest. It’s resting securely in the left inside pocket, just like the last time Sam went digging around in this box.

He’d been completely and utterly alone. No one and nowhere left to go. He had the car and whatever he could find in the car. That was it.

He’d found it two days later and it had been the final push that made him break down in the middle of nowhere. He’d dropped to his knees next to the Impala’s open trunk, clutching Dean’s leather jacket in trembling fists and sobbing uncontrollably.

There it’d been, nestled comfortably in the left inside pocket. Sam remembers holding it again after so long. It’d felt wrong. Just like it feels wrong now. It belongs to Dean, it belongs _with_ Dean. It’s been years since Dean last wore it but Sam still finds himself missing it around his brother’s neck.

He doesn’t know for how long he stands by the trunk and blinks down at the amulet in his hand but he recalls everything.

_Dean walks past him; defeated, hopeless and so angry. He lingers by the door as if waiting for Sam to catch up to what he’s about to do. Then he drops it into the trash can. Dean could’ve taken a swing at him, maybe two or even three. It still wouldn’t have hurt as much._

_Sam can’t just leave it there like that, though. His brother has held onto it for more than eighteen years and Sam can’t believe Dean’s done with it, just like that. Dean is pissed and he’s lost all hope. But Sam still has some – maybe even enough for the both of them. It won’t be easy but he figures, he can keep Dean’s amulet for him. For a little while, just like he did during those four months. Until Dean can… until Dean can trust him again, believe in him again._

_Sam knows he can’t postpone it any longer when they check into a motel that night after bleeding two demons dry for him. They’re hitting the road for Detroit first thing in the morning._

_Dean tries his best to act nonchalant as if it’s just another motel in just another nameless town that they’re passing through. But he’s jittery and nervous and so miserable. Sam has to do it now. Or never. He could write a letter. Maybe._

_In the end he finds the strength to finally do it. If Dean can find faith in Sam, after everything he’s done, the least Sam can do is make things right once again._

_“Hey, Dean,” he says quietly. He’s standing a few feet away from his brother, squeezing the amulet in the hand that’s buried deep inside his jacket pocket._

_Dean is peeking out into the dark night, holding the edge of the dirty curtain with two fingers carefully. He looks like he’s half expecting Lucifer to show up right there at their doorstep. Slowly, he shifts his gaze to Sam, letting go of the curtain and folding his arms over his chest._

_Sam takes a couple hesitant steps towards him, squeezing the small trinket in his fist so hard it starts to bite into his skin. “I thought, uhh, I mean I – I – I want you to…” he babbles, feeling himself trembling slightly. “I mean, I – I don’t know if you want it, but I, uhh…” He has to take a breath to continue as Dean looks at him with a complicated mix of surprise, misery and fear on his face._

_Sam takes his hand out of his pocket and starts to extend it forward. “I thought maybe – maybe you could, I don't know... I mean, you'd… I want you to, no I – I – I’d like you to have it.”_

_Dean looks horrified. All color seems to drain from his face as his eyes go back and forth between Sam’s face and his open, outstretched hand._

_“Please,” Sam can’t help but add silently, staring at the floor to hide the tears he can feel pooling in his eyes. That’s part of the reason why he doesn’t realize Dean closing the distance between them until he touches Sam’s hand with his own trembling fingers._

_“Sammy,” he starts through clenched teeth._

_Sam raises his eyes only to be greeted with the utter devastation on his big brother’s face. Dean’s lips are quivering and he looks like he’s trying not to blink. He’s still ghost-white. “Sammy,” he chokes out once again, squeezing Sam’s shoulder with his other hand. His grip is almost painful, he’s trying so hard not break down. But Sam knows that one’s a lost battle because he himself is about to break apart at the seams._

_“You picked it up?” Dean asks with a shaky breath._

_Sam nods fervently and finally lets the tears fall._

_“’m sorry,” Dean croaks out as he finally pulls Sam into a tight, desperate hug. “’m sorry, ‘m sorry Sammy,” he keeps muttering over and over again as he squeezes Sam with all the strength he has. Sam can only keep nodding mindlessly and squeeze back._

He still doesn’t know how long they stood cemented on that spot that night, sobbing and holding onto each other for one last time. He vaguely remembers Dean thanking him with red eyes and taking his amulet back. He’d squeezed it in his fist even harder than Sam had before, so hard that Sam had been worried he might break skin.

Dean never put it back on. Sam never asked him why. But he understood.

Dean never wore his leather jacket again, either.

They don’t talk about any of that. The amulet, the jacket or God-forbid, that last night. They don’t talk about it because it’s one of the countless unspoken pacts they’ve made throughout the years.

They might not talk about it, not ever, but Sam knows his brother too well not to realize that Dean was never the same after he jumped into that fiery pit. Neither was Sam, of course.

 _“_ _It goes against every fiber I got._ _”_

Sam knows it wasn’t fair to ask Dean to let him die then. Just like it wasn’t fair for Dean to ask him to stand by and let him get dragged to Hell by hell-hounds. But now he realizes, maybe it was much, much worse to ask Dean for the same thing a second time.

 _“_ _Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you._ _”_

 _“_ _I'm not gonna leave you._ _”_

*

“I get it,” Dean says from the doorway, his tone perfectly casual as if they’ve been in the middle of a conversation for some time, now.

He only just appeared at the entrance to the library, though, and Sam has been on his own, reading about Cain and Abel for hours. In fact, these are the first words Dean spoke to Sam in nearly five days except for the curt responses to questions about his ribs and his head or food and pain medication.

Apparently, he’s picking the conversation up where they left off when Sam ran out of the room.

“I mean, you know, I try to get it,” he continues with a shrug. Then he immediately tries to cover up the sharp wince at the pain the movement must have caused. “But the thing is I – I can’t. Not really. I’ve never been possessed.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say, yet, so he listens.

Dean shakes his head slowly. “But, I mean, it’s not a picnic even _seeing_ you like that, like – possessed. So I get it, I can only imagine how it… It must be terrible.”

It’s funny how Sam never really thought how it must have felt for Dean to see him possessed so many times, now, by so many different beings.

“It is,” he silently agrees.

Dean nods, his eyes cast downwards and sniffs in that way he does sometimes when he’s trying to school his expression.

“I mean I can’t make you understand, Dean, and I never want you to find out how bad it is first hand,” Sam tells him, earnest. “I hope you never do. That’s why I said –” He can’t finish the sentence this time. He doesn’t want to repeat what he told Dean that night. It was cruel to put it like that.

Dean keeps nodding.

“I knew what I did was wrong,” he says, meeting Sam’s eyes for the first time since he showed up. He looks so old – so much older than his 35 years. “I knew what I let that bastard do to you – knew it was wrong from the beginning.”

Sam doesn’t really understand how they got here, then. “Then why?” he asks for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Because I had to!” Dean snaps loudly. His left hand goes to curl around his ribs in an instant.

Sam can see him trying to breathe normally through the pain but he still can’t stop himself from snapping back. “No, no, you didn’t have to!” he says, shoving his chair away from the table and springing to his feet, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I didn’t ask you to, Dean… I was willing to die and – and I certainly didn’t want to be saved like – like this!”

Dean is staring at him without blinking, his jaw locked tight. He shakes his head after a few seconds, looking crushed. “You’re a fucking lying bastard, you know that?” he throws back before disappearing back into the hallway.

Sam stands by the table for a moment, dumbfounded. What does he even mean? Sam – _Sam_ – is a liar? As if he’s the one who spent the last three months lying to Dean’s face!

Fury starts to boil down deep in the pit of his stomach as he storms to the hallway. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he shouts but Dean is nowhere to be seen.

“Dean!” he calls, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He stalks towards Dean’s room, furious. Maybe it’s time they had a proper fight and put an end to this passive-aggressive bullshit.

“What the hell does that mean?” he repeats as he rounds the corner to Dean’s room.

Dean is busy struggling into a shirt. He still can’t raise his left arm above waist level so he keeps cringing and wincing as he tries to fit it into the shirt. He doesn’t even acknowledge Sam’s presence.

“Dean?” Sam demands.

Dean can’t hide his slight grimace as his head finally snaps up to face Sam. He’s twisting and turning his abused upper body and trying to get his other arm into the shirt. “What?”

“ _I_ _’_ _m_ a liar?” Sam needles.

Sam can see Dean wanting to say something but instead he seals his mouth shut stubbornly and makes a move to walk past him, out of the room. Sam takes a step to his left and effectively blocks his way. “No,” he starts in a low voice. “You’ve been lying to me for months, for months! You’d even let me believe I was going crazy. But _I_ _’_ _m_ the liar? How so?”

Dean shakes his head, his eyes guarded. “No,” is all he says.

“What?”

“You’re right. ‘m the one who lied to your face,” he admits silently, eyes downcast once more. His left arm goes across his stomach and Sam realizes he’s been doing that a lot lately. He grabs his other arm below the elbow this time. Sam can’t help but notice the tight grip he has on it. He didn’t think the rib fractures would still be giving Dean so much trouble after a few days. He wants to ask if he’s okay but what ends up coming out is “Why’d you call me a lying bastard, then?”

Dean shrugs and it looks awkward with the death grip he has on his arm.

“What did you mean?” Sam still can’t stop asking.

“Nothing,” Dean answers solemnly. His eyes dart around the room for a moment before settling once again on Sam. “Will you get out of my way, now? I gotta go out.”

Despite everything, Sam finds himself moving half a step to the right.

Dean slips out of the room immediately. “Where are you going?” Sam asks, addressing his hunched shoulders. He can see them tense up momentarily at the question. If Dean had been merely angry with him, he’d bite back with a 'None of your damn business!' or a simple 'Out!'. But he says neither.

“Beer run,” he mutters over his shoulder as if it’s no big deal. “We’re out.”

Sam knows that. He went grocery shopping a couple days ago and he didn’t buy any beer – on purpose. He huffs out a breath before he finds his voice. “Dean, you’re still on painkillers.”

Dean stops at that. He turns around carefully, moving his entire body, to glance at Sam with a raised eyebrow. Sam notices he’s still gripping his arm and even rubbing it with his thumb. “So?” Dean asks.

“So?” Sam repeats, incredulous. “You shouldn’t be drinking.”

Dean chuckles humorlessly and Sam notices him hunching over himself just a bit more. “Thank you, Florence,” he says, “But I can take care of myself.”

Sam feels his eyebrows shoot up; he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Oh, yeah,” he bites back, “You’re doing such a great job of it, your ribs aren’t even a _little_ bit better – even after five days.”

Sam can see Dean try to control himself for a few seconds before deciding to ignore what Sam just said and turning back around. Sam thinks he can hear a faint mutter echo around the narrow corridor as Dean turns around the corner: “M’ribs are fine.”

He doesn’t go after Dean. Despite all the anger he was feeling only a few minutes ago, he doesn’t really want to fight. The truth is he’s tired, just like he told his concussed brother a couple nights ago when Dean asked him why he wanted to die. He’s tired of this life and he’s so, so tired of always fighting with Dean. He misses the days when it used to be easy between the two of them. Not that it was ever that easy but for years now, they’ve been burying everything so deep that it’s become impossible to actually communicate with one another.

So he doesn’t follow Dean to the car. Instead, he goes back to the library. It’s only when he resumes reading about Cain that he recognizes what Dean was doing holding onto his right arm with his left hand.

He wasn’t cradling his ribs.

He was gripping the Mark, rubbing it. What the hell is it doing to his brother?

*

Sam won’t be caught unaware this time. It’s been a couple hours since Dean left and he’s been thinking obsessively ever since, and going over everything he wants to say to him when he comes back. He’s not gonna be distracted by his own anger, this time, and he’s not gonna stand dumbfounded by the bombs Dean drops.

Something is clearly happening to Dean and Sam might be angry, hurt and he might not be ready to forgive Dean. Hell, Dean hasn’t even apologized yet so maybe he won’t ever be able to forgive him. But he’s tired of making the same mistakes over and over again.

Whatever’s happening to Dean, Sam needs to be right there, right beside him for it. Whatever they’re gonna have to do stop Abaddon, Metatron or whoever the fuck else, they’re gonna do it together. Because Sam doesn’t really believe what he told Dean about family. Not like Dean did that one time, when he told Sam to pick a hemisphere.

Sam knows… he knows, despite everything, family makes them stronger. He’s just too hurt, too betrayed and too damn furious to admit it out loud. To himself or to Dean.

 _“_ _I just know we're all we've got._ _”_

And ignoring the problem, refusing to deal with it, doesn’t make it go away. It’s always been Dean’s preferred method. But it’s a suck ass way to live and Sam can’t go on repressing like this. He knows he can’t keep this up forever. They’re gonna have to find a way to deal eventually. He doesn’t know how or when but he knows they’re gonna get there.

 _“_ _Come on. You and Dean? That's something special, don't you think?_ _”_

He might have secretly agreed with Jody, there... Sam doesn’t know if they’re “special” or whatever but in the last couple of days, staying home, taking care of Dean – _when he’d let him_ – and researching the Mark, he realized it wasn’t as bad as he first thought it was. He has to admit, it is pretty messed up. But Sam has finally started to believe, more than a month after learning about Gadreel, that maybe they can actually fix this.

It was Dean who called him back all those years ago. It was Dean who pushed him away at first but then pulled him back. Sam thinks maybe he can do something similar.

Dean already told him he knew what he did was wrong. He also told him he would do it again but that was before – before they opened this whole ugly can of worms, so to speak. It’s what made Sam fly off the handle that night in the kitchen and tear Dean apart. So Sam thinks if, this time, he can actually explain to Dean the gravity of what he okayed, if he can make him see how violated and powerless and betrayed it made Sam feel, Dean will finally realize what he did.

All he can do is try to talk to his brother, though. It’s up to Dean to reciprocate.

Sam wishes his brother would meet him halfway. Because he doesn’t really have any idea how to do this on his own. Alone.

_“I can’t do this alone.”_

Neither of them can.

*

Dean stumbles in four hours later.

By then, Sam has moved to the map table in the war room with his books and his laptop. And he’s ready to tackle Dean head on – not literally of course, Dean still looks like he lost a fight with a brick wall.

Sam can smell the faint whiff of alcohol as his brother walks past the table with six-packs in each hand. It smells like Dean indulged himself a bit while he was out.

“Dean, hey,” he calls as he stands from his seat and takes both six-packs from him in one swift motion.

“Dude, hey!” Dean protests as Sam deposits the beers on the table unceremoniously. He gestures towards the general direction of the kitchen with one hand. “You’re supposed to keep the beer cold!”

“I’ll put ‘em in the fridge later,” Sam dismisses. “Right now, I wanna know what exactly you meant before you ran out on me.”

“I didn’t run out on you,” Dean objects promptly. “We were out of beer!”

Sam nods patiently. “Okay,” he agrees. “Thanks for going on a beer run with broken ribs, then.”

Dean heaves a big sigh, sounding irritated. “My ribs are fine, Sam! How many times do I hav – ”

“Okay, that’s great, good news,” Sam cuts him off, raising his hands in the universal gesture of 'Look, I’m unarmed and harmless'. “Just, please, will you tell me why you said what you said before?”

Dean seems to freeze for more than a couple seconds before shaking his head, looking exasperated. “Just drop it, Sam.”

“No, Dean,” Sam persists. “I know you don’t like hearing about how I was prepared to die but why would you call me a liar?”

“Because you are!” Dean yells out finally.

“What?”

Dean looks truly distressed, now. His eyes keep darting around the room. “Ever since… Ever since you kicked that bastard out, you’ve been telling me you were willing to die. But that’s not what you said before, man!”

Sam still doesn’t get it. He can’t remember whatever it is Dean’s talking about. “I don’t – when did I..?”

Dean’s jaw is twitching where it’s locked tight. “You don’t even remember, do you? So you were just bullshitting me then?” he spits out.

Sam is trying hard to keep his righteous anger under check so they can have an actual conversation. But Dean seems too agitated for such a conversation. He’s not angry, per se, more like crushed, even chagrined.

As Sam stands there, completely stunned yet again, Dean shakes his head with that forlorn look on his bruised face and brushes past him towards the hallway.

He stops by the entryway and turns to face Sam before he can open his mouth to tell him to come back. “You said you wanted to survive it,” he reveals finally. “You said – you said you saw the damn light at the end of the tunnel. Hell, you asked me to believe in you.”

Sam thinks he can see Dean shaking slightly. “The light at the end of the tunnel. You were supposed to take me to it, man...”

His brother disappears into the dim light of the corridor before Sam can process what just happened. It takes him a long while to get himself together after that. How could he..?

He’s filled with apprehension as he tries to convince his legs to hold him upright until he can at least get to Dean’s room.

“Dean…” he whispers from the doorway, he doesn’t know what else to say.

Dean is sitting perched at the edge of his bed, huddled over himself. He’s holding his head in both hands.

“Dean,” Sam tries again. “I – I don’t –”

“I’m sorry,” Dean cuts him off with a croak, his voice hoarse. He looks up and Sam is finally able to see his glinting eyes. “I’m sorry for everything… Just not – ” He scoffs suddenly. “’m sorry for all this. Just don’t ask me to be sorry that you’re alive. I _can’t._ ”

Sam thought he would feel better if he heard an apology from Dean. But he really doesn’t. He feels even worse, if that is possible. And the worst thing is, Dean shocked him into such an impenetrable silence that he can’t do anything but listen.

“I knew it wasn’t my call,” Dean goes on, seemingly unable to stop once he’s started. “Even told him so… You know, I can still hear the machines wailing nonstop. It’s all still here.” He taps his temple a couple times.

Sam knows what he means. He remembers the same wailing machines from another hospital room, from many years ago. Dean’s chest jumping lifelessly under the defibrillator.

“So yeah, I let him do it. And yeah, maybe I did it ‘cause I didn’t wanna be alone. But who the fuck _does_ , huh? Who the fuck wants to be alone?”

 _“_ _I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand. Cause that's what I have waiting for me_ _–_ _that's all I have waiting for me. I want you to get out. I want you to have a life_ _–_ _become a Man of Letters, whatever._ _”_

“And I lied to you, tricked you for months. Wanted to tell you the truth every single day. Tried to tell you a hundred times, every damn day.” He shrugs. “But I couldn’t… And then he wouldn’t let me.”

 _“_ _You, with a wife and kids and_ _–_ _and_ _–_ _and grandkids, living till you're fat and bald and chugging Viagra_ _–_ _that is my perfect ending, and it's the only one that I'm gonna get._ _”_

Dean is trembling with the effort to control himself, now. Sam has no idea how he can still talk. His face has turned red as if he can’t get enough oxygen.

“So you can hate me all you want,” Dean says, hanging his head once more. “I’d still rather have you alive than…”

Sam finally finds his voice enough to blurt in denial: “I don’t hate you!”

He takes a couple steps into the room and drops to his knees in front of Dean, standing up too much of an effort. “I don’t hate you Dean, I don’t… But every time I close my eyes, I see _my_ hand on Kevin’s forehead.” Dean flinches at the mention of Kevin’s name. “I know you see it, too. But it’s different when it’s your own hands doing it.” He’s holding his hands in front of him, as if they’re covered with something _– blood –_ and he’s trying to keep it from dripping all over the place. Dean is staring at his hands like he can see the blood, too. “It’s so much worse.”

Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath and wipes a hand over his eyes hastily, he can’t even see. “I get it now. You believed in me, you believed that we would both survive. And that’s why I stopped when you asked me to in that church, that’s why I didn’t go through with it, Dean.” He swallows hard. He has to get all this out or he’ll never be able to say any of this ever again. It’s a freakin’ miracle they’ve even come so far.

He can smell the whiskey in Dean’s breath as he inhales deeply before continuing.

“And I’m sorry I was gonna bail out in the last minute. But I was exhausted, man, I was wrecked – I – I guess I couldn’t see the light, anymore. But I need you to understand – you can’t make this call for me. You can’t override my autonomy like this. Not ever. Not even to save my life.”

He stares determinedly into Dean’s eyes and doesn’t dare blink. Dean doesn’t shy away from him; he holds his gaze instead.

Then he nods slowly.

*

Sam returns to his brother’s room hours later. Dean is out cold on the bed; the whiskey and painkillers having done their trick.

They are far from fixing things, Sam knows that. But the ground they covered today has gotta be progress enough for now.

It makes Sam believe that someday, he will forgive Dean. And maybe Dean will forgive him, too, for all the times he’s messed up.

It makes Sam believe in _them._

He stares down at the little piece of metal in his hand and bites the corner of his lower lip.

Then he approaches the bed slowly and starts listening to the sound of Dean’s breathing, out of sheer habit. It doesn’t sound as shallow as it did a few days ago. His ribs must really be healing, then.

Sam leans in towards his sleeping brother and pulls the spare blanket over him silently. He takes a fraction of a moment to study Dean’s face, looking for any signs of distress and upon seeing none, he places the amulet on the pillow right next to his head.

He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe they’ll talk, maybe they’ll fight, maybe they’ll live, maybe they’ll die. He’s once again starting to believe they’ll do it together, though.

And after all, all they can do is try.

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

Dean blinks bleary eyes at the room as he slowly finds his way into wakefulness. The first thing he notices is the dimly shining piece of metal lying on his pillow innocently, only five inches away from his nose.

He hasn’t laid eyes on it for a long time, but that doesn’t keep him from recognizing it in an instant.

He feels the side of his mouth twitch as his fingers close around his amulet.

It feels warm.

It feels like coming home.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for sticking with this story (I mean if you did, that is) considering how unimaginably long it took me to finish it. Do you still remember what happened in the previous chapters? I thought even I might forget for a while there... Chuck was right: Endings are hard. Even if it's the ending of a monster coda like this one. I'm not entirely satisfied with it but what're you gonna do? Well, at least I managed to deliver just before the start of the new season, huh?
> 
> Anyway, I'd be very happy if you let me know what you think about this. Thanks for reading!


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